He drops me almost instantly, and I fall back into my chair.
“Why do you do that? Why do you make me hurt you like that?” He mutters something. Although my heart is pounding in my ears, I think I hear him whisper my mother’s name like a curse.
I glare at him, but I say nothing.
He strides back to my door, glancing at me over his shoulder to deliver one final warning. “Vincent’s gone too far this time. If you see him, stay clear. He’s become ruthless, dangerous.”
I don’t bother to remind him that it’d been different before—that Vinnie is only the monster he is because that’s what my father made him. If he is ruthless and violent, it’s because my father needed him to be. Vinnie’s moniker, Mad Dog, is all too appropriate. My father is plenty willing to let him loose on others—no matter the consequences—but he lives in terror of the day when that dog turns on its master. And from the sound of it, that day is fast approaching.
We always create the thing we fear the most.
The door slams shut. Alone once more, I begin my makeup routine again. This time, I have to cover the handprint slowly bruising across my face and angry red fingerprints dotting my collar bone in a nearly perfect string. I can’t help but wonder about the poor child, and a swell of pity fills me. His parents must be devastated. I can’t imagine something like that. Accident or not, Vinnie needs to be punished for this. If it’s true. He’s been out of control for too long now, each act he commits taking him further and further from the boy he’d been. Each drop of blood he spills staining his soul a little more.
We have that in common.
And for what? My father? Our family? The business?
It doesn’t feel worth it anymore.
Normally, I might consider bowing out on my set after an event like this, but I don’t. Benjamin is going to be in the crowd tonight, his first night working as my father’s new security guard. The idea is laughable. Benjamin is a buck sixty if he’s lucky, and lean as they come. Besides, he has no training of any kind. Hell, I doubt he’s thrown a punch in his whole life. He’s not the sort of person to make a guard. He is, however, kind, selfless, and genuinely…good. This place—these people—will eat him alive.
I can’t help but wonder if that’s Daddy’s intent. Benjamin, clever and honest as he seems to be, might be more useful in other places. Places like running rackets or even hosting clubs. Any of which will put him directly in JD’s line of fire. Or worse…what if he’s looking to replace Vinnie? Looking to create a new dog to do his bidding?
I blow out a slow breath as my mind settles around the idea.
Standing so quickly I nearly topple my chair, I grab my bag from the dressing table. I can’t let that happen. Not again. I ran away, hid in school while my father corrupted Vinnie. I won’t run again. Grabbing my coat, I sneak out the back door, spilling onto the street to where I flag down my waiting driver. Knowing I’ll have to hurry so I don’t miss my first set, I bark the address and we speed off into the night.
The hallway reeks of sweat and sin, the odors wafting up from the brothel below. With one gloved hand, I rap on the wooden door, a hollow, dead sound. I hear footsteps beyond, hushed whispers, and finally, Loretta pulls it open, one hand clutching the front of her sky-blue kimono.
“Whaddya want, sugar?” she asks, her voice gravely. “I’m all booked up for the night. You could come back tomorrow—”
I don’t bother to explain myself to her. She’s nothing special, one of a dozen of Vincent’s girls. He has them scattered about the city in cheap apartments. This seems to be his favorite though, the place where I can always leave a message for him and know he’ll get it quickly. But tonight, I know he’s here. His cologne sticks to her skin, the scent a mixture of bourbon and spice unique to him. Looking past her disheveled brown hair, I call over her shoulder.
“Vinnie, it’s Masie. I need to talk to you.”
Loretta frowns, tilting her head to block my view. “Look, honey, ain’t nobody here—”
Before she can say more, a hand clutches her arm, dragging her out of the doorway. Vinnie pokes his head around the jamb, glancing down the hall behind me. “You alone?”
I sigh. “Of course.”
He waves me in with one hand, closing the door behind me. Loretta flops down onto the sofa, her kimono falling open to reveal a lacy cornflower-blue negligee. She lays her back flat against the seat cushions, draping her long legs over one upholstered arm and rolling her feet at the ankles.
“Shouldn’t you be at the club?” he asks, lighting up a Lucky and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling.
“I’ve got some time, and I want to talk business.”
He takes another drag. “So not a social call then? I’m disappointed.”
“Do we need to speak privately?” I ask, motioning to Loretta as I slide off one glove and tuck it into my purse.
Loretta opens her mouth to protest, but Vincent waves her away. Reluctantly, she gathers herself and glides out of the room with a glare, leaving me to take her seat.
“What’s the matter, Mas?”
I slide off my other glove, clutching it in my lap, “That’s what I’m here to ask you, Vinnie.”
He frowns, his deep-set brown eyes casting a gaze at the wooden floor before he flicks the cigarette to the ground and stomps it with the toe of his boot. “You heard about the kid.”
It isn’t a question, but I respond anyway. “Of course I did. The whole city heard about the kid—and they’re out for blood. Your blood. Which you already know or you wouldn’t be hiding out here.”
He shakes his head, taking a seat beside me. “It was an accident, Masie. I swear I never meant to hurt the brat. Things just got out of control.”
I rest one hand on his knee. “I believe you. But this has to end. Surely you see that?”
His chin snaps up, his expression stern. “Tell it to the old man. I just do what I’m told.”
Releasing his knee, I turn to face him more fully. “Daddy…he’s gone too far. Vinnie, you don’t have to do this anymore. You don’t have to be his executioner. You can help me talk some sense into him, help me bring him back from the edge before he goes too far.”
For a moment, his expression softens. He’s the boy I remember, the one with skinned knees and a missing front tooth. In another second, that boy vanishes.
“Maybe he hasn’t gone far enough. If he’d stop playing these petty games, we could actually do something to end this war before it begins.”
His voice is tense, his eyes wild, as he continues. “Masie, it’s two guys, three tops. We take them out, and we rule the city. We wouldn’t need Rothschild and his money; we could have it all. I could do all three in one night. By the time the sun comes up, every family on the island would answer to us.”
I shake my head. He sounds less like a businessman, less like my friend, and more like a zealot. “It doesn’t end there, Vinnie. You know that. The families don’t just fall in line behind whoever kills the heads. We go after them, then they come after us. It’s war. It’s blood in the streets. It’s retribution without end. You know that. I know you do.”
He blinks, one corner of his mouth turning up into something that should be a grin but feels far too menacing for that. “I can protect you.”
“And Daddy? JD? You can’t protect us all.”
He shrugs. “Maybe what this family needs is new leadership. Someone who isn’t afraid to do what needs to be done.”
For the briefest moment, I think he’s talking about JD, but that illusion fades quickly. JD can be brutal, but even he has the good sense to negotiate rather than attack outright. No, he’s talking about himself, about a coup. A chill crawls up the back of my neck at the malice in his words. “You don’t mean that.”
“You should go, Masie. You should go far away from here. Go to Paris. You’ve always wanted to go to Paris. Go now, before things get any worse. Because maybe you’re right. Maybe I can’t protect you. But change is coming, and the
re’s nothing you can do about that.”
He stands, and so do I. I follow him across the room to the door, taking him by the arm and turning him to face me.
“Vinnie, please. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
He stares down at my hand on his arm, a strange look crossing his face before he raises his gaze to me, his chin still tucked into his chest. “And why is that, Masie?”
His words hit me like a bucket of cold water.
“Because I love you,” I say weakly. We’ve been over this so many times it’s difficult to force the words out again. And I know that every time I say them, honest as they are, they cut him more deeply than a knife, mostly because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. He chose the business over anything we might have had a long time ago. “I love the boy who used to sneak cookies out of the kitchen with me in the middle of the night, who taught me to drink whiskey and play poker. I know you’re not that boy anymore, but you will always be that boy to me. You’re family.”
Even as I speak, I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I refuse to let them spill. I refuse to use that last, most desperate weapon in my arsenal against him.
He pulls me to him. Wrapping his big arms around me, he squeezes gently, whispering into my hair. I let myself melt against him, basking in the warmth and comfort he’s offering. Because deep down, I know it’s the last time. He’s right about one thing at least. Things are changing. We’re on a roller coaster, and neither of us can get off. Not now. Maybe we never could.
“I fell for you as a boy, Mas, and truth be told, I never quite grew out of it. But I haven’t been that boy in a very long time. I’m a bad man who does bad things, and I don’t deserve you. Maybe I never did. Either way, it doesn’t change anything. Neither of us can be who the other one wants; we can only be who we are.”
“I won’t run away,” I say, still clutching him to me. “I don’t have it in me.”
He lays a gentle kiss on the top of my head. “You’re a fighter—always have been. But this isn’t a fight you can win, Mas. Dutch is gonna take care of the charges against me; he always does. But things are already in motion, things neither of us can control. You should get out while you can.”
“I’m not leaving my family,” I say, pulling free of the embrace. “And like it or not, that includes you.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t save us, Mas. Me, Dutch, JD, we’re already ghosts. Dead and buried. Save yourself if you can.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, you stubborn jackass,” I protest.
“There’s my girl.” He grins, opening the door, “You take care of yourself, Masie.”
There’s nothing else I can say. No plea, no reason, no warning is going to get him to see the light. He’s as tangled in this life as Daddy. Both thinking they have to play the game, both determined to win. Maybe he’s right and they are all lost causes. Maybe I am too, and I just don’t know it yet.
The streets of Tin Pan Alley overflow with bleating horns and ivory-keyed notes as Dickey and I make our way to The Green Door Club. Swanky cinema patrons empty onto crammed sidewalks where stage-door Johnnies wait, blowing their cigarette smoke into the night air. Flappers and high hats drunk on their bootleg gin bandy from one club to the next, the thrill of their decadence glowing in their rosy cheeks.
“Hey, spot me some kale,” Dickey whispers as we stop just outside the most famous green door in the city. Dutch’s club, marked by the familiar color, stands unique against all the other speakeasies in Manhattan. His club boasts the biggest players in the city, the highest-quality booze, and, of course, the most beautiful club canary in recent memory.
“What happened to yours?” I ask, rifling through my wallet for a buck and handing it over.
A slit in the door opens, a set of eyes looking us over. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a place to water my horse,” Dickey whispers. It’s the correct secret phrase, and the door opens.
He taps me on the chest, not looking at me but at two brunettes nearing the club. The taller of them offers a flirtatious wink over one bare shoulder.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go buy that dame a drink.”
He jogs to catch up with the girls, drapes an arm across each of their shoulders, and escorts them inside.
I follow a few steps behind. As soon as I step inside, I feel the familiar tug of the club. Only now, it’s nearly overwhelming. The stage is full, the band beating away as a handful of dancers wiggle across the floor to the unyielding Charleston. Couples sit, sipping from mismatched tea china as sprays of golden tinsel and martini glasses overflowing with confetti and pearls decorate the tables. The lamps flicker a warm, golden glow, laughter ringing from every corner as the masses throw caution to the wind, their fancy shoes and shimmering dresses reflecting their exuberance. Speakeasies are supposed to be quiet, secret places, but this is bold, daring. They are challenging anyone to walk through that door and spoil their good time. Dickey beats it to the bar, sharing a drink with the two dolls, his smile easy, his posture confident. He jerks his head, silently inviting me to join them.
The club has cast her net, and I know it would be very easy to get caught up in it. But that’s not why I’m here. Forcing myself to focus, I scan the room.
Quickly comparing myself to the other patrons, I tug self-consciously at the hem of my borrowed jacket—my only real suit is full of holes, soaked in blood, and probably rotting in a trash bin somewhere. It hadn’t been cheap, nearly twenty-five dollars plus the tailoring, and now I’m going to need a new one. But if this gig pays as well as Dutch insinuated, my money problems will quickly become a thing of the past. I’ll have enough to get Agnes to that specialist in Albany and to replace what Ma lost after Dad died.
It’s more than enough motivation to agree to whatever he asks of me.
I scan the room for him. He must see me first because by the time I spot him, I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, his eyes narrow and cautious, as if he’s been watching me for some time.
I recognize most of the men at his table from the day before, but JD is nowhere to be seen. Dutch waves me over, and I dutifully obey.
When I arrive, he stands, shaking my hand.
“Glad you could join us, my boy,” he says, a hint of a German accent in his words.
“Yes, glad to see you recovered so quickly,” another man says, offering me his hand as well. He’s tall and yellow haired. Quite a bit younger than Dutch, in his mid-twenties maybe. He’s got his coat hanging on the back of his chair, wearing a blue-checkered vest with a fancy paisley ascot wrapped around his neck and tucked into it. “Alistair Rothchild.”
“Benny—um, Benjamin Fleischer,” I stammer. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Fleischer?” the portly man across the table asks with a chuckle. He’s in a tuxedo, though it appears at least a few sizes too small. The white vest struggles to hold in his girth, the fabric bunching beneath the jacket. He doesn’t stand or offer his hand, so I simply nod. “Another Red at the table?” I open my mouth to protest—I’m no communist—but he waves me off. “No, of course not. Just a gas, my boy, just a gas.”
“Please, have a seat.” Dutch snaps his fingers, and a steward waiting in the wings hurriedly pulls up an empty chair. “These are my associates. Alistair is my business partner—”
“Financier,” he corrects with a sly grin. “It’s much nicer than being called a pocketbook.”
“Quite so, and this fella is Simon Dunn, or as you may know him, Councilman Dunn.” Dutch winks and takes a long drink from his teacup.
Looking up, Dutch waves again. I follow his line of sight to a grey-haired man making his way across the dance floor toward us. When he arrives, I stand, offering my hand as Dutch makes the introductions.
“Benny, this is my friend Jack Berman. Jack, this is my newest associate, Benjamin Fleischer.”
His name strikes something inside me like a tuning fork. Everyone knows the Bermans are
the left hand of the Luciano crime family—cousins or something along that line. They have their fingers in everything from booze to dope to running books. It’s all I can do to meet his sharp blue eyes and not look away.
“Sir,” I say.
“Benny, yes. He’s the young man who took a bullet for you, is that right?” He stares at me as if I were a bug in a jar, examining me, all while continuing to shake my hand. The pain of the motion zings up my arm and into my still-raw wound, stealing my breath. “Amazing, just amazing. Dutch was lucky to have you there.”
“We should all be so lucky,” Alistair mutters, taking a drink. “But now that we’re all here, we should take this to the private room.”
Leaning back in his chair, Dutch slaps the table. The steward shows up within a minute with another round of drinks for everyone, including me.
“What’s the matter, boy? You don’t partake?” Simon asks, his chubby face in a sort of pout.
“Better not while I’m supposed to be working.” I turn to Dutch. “I am working tonight, correct, sir?”
Dutch grins and slaps me on the back. “Quite so. But I don’t imagine one belt will impair you all that much.”
Seeing I don’t really have a choice, I lift the cup to my mouth. It’s Irish whisky in coffee, and it slides down my throat easily.
“What do you think?” Dutch asks eagerly.
“It’s so smooth I think I’ve already got an edge,” I respond with a grin.
“Not like that swill they’re slinging down at the Hub,” Jack chimes in. “This is superior quality, as promised.”
Dutch slaps me on the back, and I wince as pain shoots through my shoulder.
“I expected nothing less,” he says, swirling his own drink before gulping it down in one swallow. “Neither of those things are the concern.”
Alistair picks a bit of lint from his white trousers, crossing his legs. “It’s an investment not without risks,” he says, glancing across the table to Jack.
The music stops, the crowd breaking into riotous applause. A slender fella in a white suit approaches the microphone, hushing the clubgoers. “And now, the doll you’ve all been waitin’ for…The Golden Canary herself, Miss Masie.”
The Canary Club Page 7