She could also ask about Jimmy while she was at it. Her chest ached at the thought. Oh, how she missed seeing her little boy. He was all that was good in the world, all that was precious. The only good thing to have come out of her screwed-up life.
She gave herself a mental shake. What she should really be asking about was the status of the investigation into Tony’s murder. She might be free and clear and able to return home on the next Greyhound, the USO be damned. The mere possibility made her fingers itch to dial Sal right now.
Then she remembered the deal that had been cut with Miss Maggio’s father and silently cursed. Papa Maggio would not be happy if she reneged, and an angry Papa Maggio, with all his Mafia connections, would be a much bigger threat to her future happiness than a mere murder conviction.
Bottom line was she had to somehow locate Miss Maggio before the unit shipped out, or her goose would not only be cooked—it would be cooked, dressed, and served up on a gold platter with gravy on the side.
“Virginia, did you hear me?” Sue’s voice interrupted her gloomy train of thought. “It’s time for you and Miss May to show me what you’ve learned so far.”
Chapter 9
“Well, that was a barrel of fun,” Marcie groused as the door to the rec hall slammed behind them. She looked toward the fading sunset and sighed. “Do you think it’s too late to back out?”
Vi rolled her neck, her muscles all knotted from the sting of Sue’s critiques. “Nope, not if you don’t mind being AWOL. We’re part of the army now, sister.”
“Well, that stinks.”
“Not as badly as our dancing, at least according to Sue,” Vi said dryly.
Marcie wrinkled her nose and then laughed ruefully. Linking her arm through Vi’s, she gave her a sideways look. “Speaking of Sue, I heard her mention something about it being a shame you wouldn’t be singing. Is that true?”
Tension threaded Vi’s shoulders, though she kept her tone mild. “It is.”
“Are you a terrible singer, as in tone deaf, or do you think you won’t have time to learn the music? Because I’d be happy to help you with the latter.”
Vi debated how to answer for a moment and then decided on the truth, since it would be simpler to remember going forward.
“Neither. I just made a decision several years ago to stop singing.”
Marcie pulled them both to a halt and stared at her. “Why would you do that?”
“For the same reason we make any decision in life: personal preference.”
Marcie shook her head. “I think you’re nuts, because that’s a serious handicap in this business. I mean, it’s one thing if you can’t sing, but to not do it just because you don’t want to?”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture.”
“I just think you’re being foolish. It’s not like singing is a mortal sin. It’s not even a venal one, unless you belong to one of those sects that think having fun of any sort is bad . . .” The dawning horror on Marcie’s face made Vi laugh.
“Relax. You’re not paired with a wet blanket. I have no problem with fun; exhibit one—I love to dance. And I even drink on occasion—”
“And kiss boys, too?” Marcie asked with a wink and a sly smile.
“When I’m not part of a USO tour, sure.”
Marcie was shaking her head again. “Vi, Vi, Vi . . . what am I going to do with you?” She laughed and then pulled Vi’s arm close. “Corrupt you, that’s what!”
The impossibility of that had Vi wanting to both laugh and cry.
Perhaps after she had gotten over being chewed out by Sue for not being further along, she would be less emotional about things. Not that she blamed the stage manager for having such impossible expectations. It was an old director’s trick to start out strict and then lighten up as the production progressed. To start gentle and then suddenly turn fierce when things refused to jell was much harder on everyone. The former method led to respect from the cast, the latter to frustration and worse.
“Hey, there’s Gertie and Frances!” Marcie’s steps hesitated. “And Ann and Luciana. Darn them.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like how Ann is always looking down her nose at me, like I’m some kind of pond scum. And Luciana makes me uncomfortable.”
“How so?” Vi glanced at the dark-haired actress and noticed nothing unusual. She was on the quiet side, sure. But a lot of theater folk were quiet offstage, all their energy having been expended in front of the footlights.
“She . . . I don’t know, it’s like she’s trying to see into my head, and I don’t like it.”
Vi playfully elbowed the girl in the ribs. “Maybe it’s all those secrets you’re trying to keep.”
Marcie didn’t laugh. “Is it bad that I wish they weren’t traveling with us?”
“Only if you go around saying so,” Vi said seriously. “Productions are like families—you can’t always pick who is part of it. But you can do your level best to make it work.”
“I’ll try.” Marcie’s lips tightened as she watched the two actresses head toward the mess hall. “But no promises.”
“Speaking of families,” Vi said, an idea forming, “any chance you could cover for me tonight after lights out? I promised my mother I would call once I got into the show, and I haven’t had time.”
“Won’t you worry her by calling so late? Not to mention you’d be taking a real risk.” Marcie shook her head discouragingly. “If I were you, I’d write her a letter. It’d not only be safer than breaking curfew but also would give her something she could reread while you’re overseas.”
It was a reasonable suggestion, or would be if time hadn’t been of the essence, and reassuring her mother had been what Vi had actually planned.
“Perhaps, but what I really want is to hear my mom’s voice.”
Which was cross-her-heart, hope-to-die true, even if it wasn’t in the cards anytime soon. Truth was, she was afraid to call her parents. Maybe if she had called during those first frantic months on her own, or anytime after that, things wouldn’t have gotten to this point. But to not call once in five years? That was unforgivable. Her parents would likely hang up on her before she got past “hello.” She would if her child did the same to her.
Of course, she would also turn around and immediately have the operator reconnect her, her worry and love overriding disappointment. But she had no idea if her parents felt the same way.
“Just cover for me, please?” Vi batted her eyes at her travel buddy. “I’ll owe you one . . .”
Marcie threw her hands in the air. “Fine. But I’m not bailing you out if you get caught.”
A few hours later, Vi prayed her travel buddy would remember the cover story they had agreed upon as she sneaked out the barracks window. A silent, inky blackness entombed the camp due to the strict blackout orders issued for all the cities and military encampments up and down the Eastern Seaboard. With barely enough light from the slivered moon to make out the different buildings along the road, she headed toward the PX.
She winced as her shoes crunched softly on the gravel path. Nerves jittered in her stomach as an engine growled somewhere in the distance. She had no idea what she would do if she ran across a sentry. They were around, she knew. She just hoped they would stick to the perimeters of the camp and not bother a harmless young woman trying to call her ex-boss.
Relief fluttered in her veins as the PX and the phone booth morphed out of the shadows. Thankfully, the area looked utterly deserted, but then maybe she was the only one foolish enough to be out after taps.
Slipping inside the phone booth, she glanced up to check if there was a light bulb that might go on if she closed the door to muffle the sound of her conversation. It didn’t look like it. Easing the door shut, she was proven correct a moment later when no light illuminated. Breathing a silent prayer that her luck would continue to hold, she picked up the handset and clicked the cradle switch.
“Hello?” she called softly. “Long distance,
please.” Her heart raced as what felt like an eternity passed until the correct operator clicked on. “Yes, can you please place a collect call to Chicago? I’m trying to reach Mr. Sal Fleischmann of Albany Park.”
Tears filled her eyes as Sal’s familiar, hoarse voice came on the line. Due to the expense, she jumped right to her questions, and his answers were just as quick: yes, Jimmy was fine; no, she couldn’t return yet as the police investigation had stalled, and she was still being sought; and no, he didn’t think the baptismal certificate would be enough for a passport, at least not for an expedited one. For that, she would need a US citizen to vouch for her identity.
In better news, he did confirm that One Fine Mess was indeed the correct show. So Vi was where she was supposed to be.
“Tell me the names of the actresses again?” he asked after she told him that there wasn’t an Angelina Maggio to be found.
“Well, there’s Ann, which could be short for Angelina, except she’s blonde and blue eyed, and Luciana, who looks more the part.”
“Not all Italians are dark,” Sal chided her. “Give me their last names.”
Vi closed her eyes in dismay. “I don’t know any of the last names, except for my travel buddy’s, and hers is May.”
“What was that?” Sal asked sharply. Vi repeated herself, and her old mentor began to laugh, a raspy, coughing sound. “Ah, I’ll bet you anything she’s the one.”
“I was starting to think so, too,” Vi said, thinking back to her conversation with the Negro soldier that first night. “But why are you so sure? I haven’t even described her to you.”
“No need to,” Sal said with another amused wheeze. “Maggio is Italian for May, the month . . .”
A sharp rap on the glass door drowned Sal out and her heart stopped. She threw up her hand to block the sudden bright light in her eyes, and then it was gone again. A flashlight being switched off.
“Miss, I need you to step out here.”
She pressed her hand against her chest, hoping to catch her breath, but couldn’t. With eyes still partially blinded by the flashlight, she fumbled for the door handle. Then a white helmet and white gloves came into view. It was an MP. Military police.
Rats.
She opened the booth door.
“Do you have authorization to be out this late, miss?” the MP asked politely. From his size and the timbre of his voice, she guessed him to be in his forties, so a career army man. Not someone who would be wild about women running amok on his watch.
She licked her suddenly dry lips. Come on, Vi, think!
Older men often had a soft spot for helpless, crying females, right?
She gave a soft sniff and ran a finger under each eye as if wiping tears. “I-I’m so sorry.” Her voice trembled convincingly, though from honest fear, not sorrow—not that he needed to know that. “I was s-so homesick, I had to call home. Am I in trouble?”
“I’m afraid you are. You can’t go around willy-nilly after call to quarters without prior authorization. To whom do you report, miss?”
She started to say Sue, when a different name came to mind. Someone who might be more sympathetic to her plight, and someone who might be able to fix her passport problem by vouching for her. What had Marcie said? “There’s nothing he can’t make or fix.”
Well, let’s hope her travel buddy cum Mafia princess was right, because there was a lot about her situation right now that needed fixing.
Vi wiped her eyes again and tried to look contrite, though how much of her expression the fellow could see in the dark was hard to judge. “I-I suppose if you must turn me in, you’d better take me to Mr. Wyatt Miller. Though I would rather you didn’t.”
“Mr. Miller, you say?” The MP crossed his arms, and Vi hoped she was doing the right thing. “I think I can find him for you. Let’s go.”
Chapter 10
“Could this voyage be any longer?” Marcie plopped onto the deck next to Vi. She crossed her arms and scowled at her bare feet. The Atlantic Ocean splashed unimpressed against the hull of the troop carrier as the sun burned down, undimmed by a single cloud in the endless sky. “I’m tired of sitting around, cooped up either in our room or on deck, and want to be there already.”
Vi inspected her own toes for signs of a sunburn and sighed. “I can’t believe the army made me cough up five bucks to get a rushed passport. But that seems to be the way of things around here: hurry up and wait.”
Actually, it had been Mr. Miller’s five dollars, since Vi had only a dollar and five cents left to her name. The loan had come with a lecture, too, about being responsible and planning ahead. His criticism had stung, since she was responsible when not forced to do things on the fly thanks to dead hit men. Still, it had been exceedingly nice of him to drive her to the county courthouse, vouch for her identity, and otherwise make sure all the t’s were crossed and i’s dotted on her paperwork.
Someday, she would find a way to return the favor, because kindness like that shouldn’t go unrewarded.
“At least the breeze is nice,” Vi continued, tilting her face to catch the cooler air sweeping in off the ocean.
“Not nice enough to make up for being stuck on this boat for two straight weeks.” Marcie sighed and collapsed back on the gray-painted deck. “I don’t know how you can stand it with that fellow always shouting over the loudspeaker that it’s time to get up, or time to eat, or time to drill, or time to whatever. And forget about finding any privacy!”
Vi hid a smile. Now that she knew who Marcie really was, it was no wonder her travel buddy was miffed by all the rules and regulations of army life. It had to be quite the change for her.
“They lied, Vi,” Marcie proclaimed, throwing an arm out dramatically. “Join the USO; it’ll be exciting, they said. Have the experience of a lifetime. Do your part to cheer up our troops. You’ll never regret it.” The girl snorted. “I should’ve thrown my passport away as soon as I got it. Saved myself a lot of grief.”
Vi stifled a yawn. “I have a feeling things will be plenty exciting soon enough. Don’t worry.”
Her travel buddy sat up. “You know what would be grand? If we could practice our dances in front of the sailors. Except”—she collapsed back onto the deck—“fat chance of that. The captain won’t even let us be on the same deck with them!”
“Which is for our own safety, Marce. There are several thousand of them, if you include the soldiers belowdecks, and only seven of us women, if you include Sue. The last thing he wants is a riot.” Not to mention the no-fraternization edict also reduced the chances of someone recognizing her as Lily Lamour, something that still worried her, though the fear faded with each passing day.
“Luciana doesn’t seem afraid,” Marcie said a bit peevishly.
Vi frowned as she reached for the long-sleeved shirt she had borrowed from Gertie. She hoped that wherever they landed would have ready-made clothing for sale. She was so tired of wearing other people’s things. “Why would you say that? And what’s your beef with Luciana, anyway? You’re always cuttin’ her.”
Marcie shoved a sweaty lock of hair out of her face. “Obviously you didn’t see her yesterday morning, taking private shooting lessons from the captain himself. Bet that wasn’t his only pistol she was looking to handle.”
Vi let the dig at Luciana slide, more struck, and even a little impressed, that the dark-haired actress had thought to ask for shooting instruction. “You know, becoming more at ease with a gun, considering how we will be touring in a war zone, doesn’t seem all that unreasonable. What we learned at Camp Kilmer was pretty rudimentary.”
“It wasn’t the lesson I object to but how it was conducted,” Marcie said darkly. “The two of them all cozied up and smiling. Good thing she’s through with Wyatt or there would’ve been trouble.”
Vi gave her friend the side-eye. “You’re jealous!”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Marcie gestured toward the sailors who were hanging over the railing on the upper deck, ogling them. “A whol
e ship full of men and I can’t even smile at one without being reprimanded.”
“You don’t have to smile.” Vi glanced up and winked at the men, earning a cheer. The flirtatious side of her preened a bit at the attention. “Just be yourself: sweet, innocent.”
“Easy for you to say. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how men fall all over themselves when you’re around. You and Luciana, both.” Marcie plopped back onto the deck with a sigh. “I’m blaming my parents. They never left me unsupervised around anything male, so I never got a chance to practice . . . well, men-attracting things!”
“They probably wanted to protect you.”
“Yeah, by making me so clumsy and awkward around men I will never find one on my own,” Marcie said glumly.
Vi laughed. “Oh, come on.”
“I’m not kidding! My parents are relics from the eighteenth century, I swear. In their eyes ‘good girls’ marry whomever the family picks out for them, love be damned.” Marcie flung her hand out. “I’m nothing more than a pawn, someone to find an advantageous match for in order to bolster the family fortunes. I swear they all dream of becoming Rockefellers or Kennedys or Vanderbilts. Except they don’t really approve of those families, either, because they aren’t . . . well, not enough like us.”
Vi made a sympathetic noise, having seen firsthand how cliquish the Mafia was. Nor was she surprised to learn that Marcie’s parents had had a strict sense of what societal success meant. All parents did, as far as Vi could tell.
Growing up as the daughter of a respected, well-liked banker, as well as a veritable pillar of the community, had come with its own set of expectations around decorum and public behavior. Her parents had made it very clear that their girls should be well behaved, do well in school, and then find matrimonial happiness with a steady, responsible man. Working for a living wasn’t expected or even encouraged, unless it was meant to be a hobby and didn’t take away from time with the family.
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