Glitter and Gold (The Canary Club Novels Book 1)

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  I shake my head. “If I go to the cops—”

  He holds out a hand. “If you go to the cops, you could be charged with robbery, yes. But they may cut you a deal if you can give them information on the Brewers and the judge. But at least the cops won’t try to kill you.”

  “Or I can just skip town. Right now, like I’d planned to. I can run away…”

  Benny’s expression is stern, but gentle. “If you run now, you’ll be running your whole life. Always looking over your shoulder, always wondering who you can trust. Because they won’t stop coming. Not ever.”

  Taking a deep breath, I sink onto his sofa. “You’re right. But I dunno if I can go to jail. They’ll find me in there as easy as anything. Probably won’t make it one day.”

  “If you give them the evidence they need, the prosecutor will protect you. They do it all the time,” he says, trying to reassure me.

  “I don’t know which cops I can trust and who is on the payroll,” I finally say. “If I walk into that station with this cash, it’s as likely as anything to wind up conveniently missing, and we both know it.”

  He nods. “Alright. I’ll hide the cash for now. You go in and make a deal in exchange for telling them where it’s hidden.”

  I rest my head in my hands, trying to think my way out of this but coming up empty. “Alright.”

  “I’ll take it to the cannery and hide it in my locker. Once you have your deal, I’ll take the cops right to it.”

  A truly terrible thought occurs to me, and it makes me glance up at my friend. Benny, the most honest fella I know. A sliver of doubt creeps in and I lick my lips, hesitating.

  He must read the expression on my face because he rocks back on his heels. “Don’t you do that, Dickey. Don’t you look at me like that. I’m trying to help. You are family; you know that.”

  He’s right, I realize, shaking my head. There’s only one person in the world I can trust—him.

  I hand him the sack, and he slings it over one shoulder. “Wait here till I get back, then we’ll go to the cops together.”

  All I can do is nod as he heads out the door. I sit back, finally feeling the tension I’ve been holding all night slipping from my shoulders. But it’s not a full minute later that I hear the sirens, then the shouting. Racing out the door and down the stairs, I spill out onto the street where Benny stands, his hands on his head, as half a dozen cops point pistols at him, ordering him to drop the bag.

  He obeys and they rush him, getting in a few good licks before finally slapping a pair of handcuffs on him. When he catches sight of me, I take a step forward, but he shakes his head, silently ordering me to stay put.

  They toss him in the back of the wagon and speed away, not bothering to even look in my direction.

  What have I done?

  Even as I walk in a daze toward the police station, I know there’s no way they’ll believe my story now. Benny is as good as dead in there. The Brewers will kill him just to save face, and they’ll come after me to keep me quiet.

  There’s only one person who can help me now, and even that’s a gamble. Changing course, I walk uptown, toward my last hope of survival.

  I sit on the edge of my seat, staring at the cup of coffee the butler had poured for me, still untouched on the silver tray. Across the table, JD Schultz clicks his tongue.

  “And you can prove this?” he asks, his face stoic.

  Nodding once, I dig into the pocket of my trousers, producing the small black velvet sack I never opened. I hand it across the table to him. He takes it with curious fingers and tugs it open, spilling the contents onto the empty china plate in front of his with a whistle.

  Diamonds, dozens of them, glint in the midday sun.

  “And this dame wanted you to kill me?” he says again, as if in amused disbelief.

  I nod. “When I found out, I didn’t know what to do. I went to my best friend Benny. We were going to go to the cops, but he got pinched and now…”

  “Now you don’t think they’ll buy your story,” he finishes for me.

  “Exactly.”

  Sitting back in his seat, his grey eyes flick back up to me as he folds his arms across his chest. “You’ve brought me valuable information. What are you looking for in exchange?”

  Taking a deep breath, I straighten. “I need protection, for me and Benny. I’ll do anything you say to get it.”

  He taps his fingers on the edge of the plate before returning the jewels to their bag. “I’m going to go make a telephone call. You stay right here.”

  I nod again and he stands, tossing the linen napkin from his lap and scooping up the diamonds before leaving me alone on the terrace of his penthouse apartment. I try to take a bite of the muffin he offered, but my stomach is churning and even the small bite makes me wanna vomit.

  When he finally returns to his seat, he takes his coffee cup and drains the last of it before speaking.

  “Your friend has confessed to the theft in exchange for a reduced sentence. As far as the police are concerned, that’s the end of it. He didn’t give you, the dame, or anyone else up. Loyalty like that is a rare thing, Dickey. I hope you realize that.”

  I swallow and its bitter, like lemon juice. That’s Benny, though. A good guy to the core.

  “I do,” I say honestly. “But the Brewers…”

  “Have agreed not to retaliate in exchange for keeping Lilly’s name out of it. I told them you were going to go to the cops with evidence incriminating her in the theft, and Deacon backed down pretty quick,” he says. “Plus, there is the matter of him trying to take a hit out on me. Which he denies, by the way. But he knows better than to test me head-on, so he’s agreed to leave you alone, so long as you never show your face in his club or utter a word about Lilly again. You also can’t try to see her ever again.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” I swear, just the thought of it making me sick to my stomach.

  “Lepke, Deacon’s older brother, and I have a bit of a history. And to be honest with you, I’m just waiting for an excuse to go toe to toe with him. They know it, and they also know that if it happens, they’ll lose, so they’re backing off. I can’t get your friend out of the clink, though. I’m sorry about that. If you’d come to me first maybe… but as it is, someone is taking the fall for the robbery and they caught him with the goods. You can’t go in and tell them the truth, or the deal with Brewer is off.”

  I rub my chin, the guilt hitting me like a ton of bricks. Benny, my best friend—my only friend—is stuck taking the rap for me. And there’s nothing I can do about it, not if I want to keep him safe. To come clean means putting a target on both our backs. “I understand,” I say, heart hurting.

  “And I’m keeping these,” he waves the bag of diamonds, “as payment for my assistance.”

  Standing, I clutch my cap in my hands, wringing it like a wet cloth. “Of course, and thank you.”

  He bows his head, “You know, if you’re ever looking for honest work, I could always use another driver in the trucking side of the business. It pays decent, and it’d keep you under our protection. If you’re interested.”

  I blink, unsure how to respond. I haven’t had a level job in…maybe ever. And he has a point—no way would any of Brewer’s goons mess with me while I was under JD’s employ.

  “I think that’d be very kind of you, Mr. Schultz.”

  He holds out a hand, which I shake. “Please, call me JD.”

  And now, a sneak peek at the full-length novel,

  The Canary Club

  Chapter 1

  Benny

  I never killed anybody.

  Maybe that’s a silly thing to take comfort in, but having just spent three months sharing a dank cell with someone who couldn’t say the same, well, it puts things in perspective.

  Not that my innocence of that particular crime makes me virtuous. In my seventeen years on this earth, I’ve done more than my share of wrong. But not murder, never that. Lying, cheating, coveting, hell, I’ve
got most of the list covered and then some.

  But a fella’s gotta draw the line somewhere.

  Pushing the thought away, I focus on the rain beating against the tin roof across the street, the melody of it urging me forward with the promises of better things. This is the land of opportunity, after all. And here, on the tiny island of Manhattan, anything is possible—or that’s the sales pitch. Glancing back over my shoulder, I offer a farewell wave to the stone fortress. It might be considered beautiful, architecturally speaking, if not for the misery seeping from the walls like moss on stone. Eight stories high with a deceptively ornate chateau façade, the Tombs is where the worst of Manhattan’s criminal element are sent to rot away. A high, stone bridge connects the jail to the police station, which boasts tall, arched windows and Roman-style columns, all topped with rows of stately gargoyles looking down on the street below with menacing eyes. The Bridge of Sighs, they call it. A fittingly gloomy name for those crossing from independence to incarceration.

  I wish I could be more like the other Joes, beating the streets with wild dreams of striking it rich in the market or becoming the next Broadway darling. They flood in by the train full, with stars in their eyes and holes in their shoes. But dreams are for suckers and con artists, and this city has more than enough of both.

  The rain falls in fat drips on my head and shoulders as I stand on the corner of White and Elm streets, turning my back on the Tombs. It’s early on a Sunday morning, a normally bustling time of day, but the streets are eerily still. Perhaps it’s the weather that’s keeping folks inside, or the fact that Miller Huggins is, right this moment, leading the Yankees against the Washington Senators minus one very ill Babe Ruth. No doubt the majority of folks are sitting on their hands, listening to the radio broadcast of the game. Most of the guards had been—I’d strained to make out the announcer’s voices as they offered the play-by-play of the top half of the second inning through the crackling speakers. The guard doing my release papers been annoyed at having to take the time away from the game to process me, which earned me one last backhand before he opened the final doors. I touch the corner of my eye with soft fingertips and hiss at the lump I find there.

  Small price to pay for freedom, I suppose.

  Ma has no idea I’m coming home today—though I’ve written to her a dozen times during my stay in the joint. Bad enough she’d had her oldest son shackled and tossed me in the back of the paddy wagon. No, I’d rather spare her the humiliation of having to pick her oldest son up from jail—it’s the least I owe her.

  I’m a disappointment, an embarrassment to the family, even if she would never say as much out loud.

  Turning down White Avenue, I head for our tenement building. It’s not close, just on the outskirts of Queens, but I don’t have a nickel for a trolley, much less enough dough for a cab. Rummaging through my pants pockets, all I find is a ball of lint and a bubblegum wrapper. But the rain is warm with summer air and the sidewalk feels sturdy under my feet, each step more confident than the last, taking me further and further from my six-by-six cell.

  The sound of screeching tires cuts through the pounding of the rain, and I jerk my head up, seeing the door fly open and a body hit the street. It rolls out of the dark car only a few feet before coming to a stop, one bloodied hand upturned and being washed clean in the downpour. It’s followed immediately by a second body and more screeching. Then, as quickly as it’d come, the black sedan speeds off, its whitewall tires peeling down the road and zipping around a corner with a splash.

  My first instinct is to rush to the bodies to try to help—if they can be helped. It’s only the stern voice in my head that pulls me up short, my footsteps faltering.

  Keep your head down, Benny.

  My father’s warning echoes inside my head. I cringe against the memory of the last words he’d ever spoken to me. Frozen in midstride, I watch the scene unfold before me, distant and partially obscured in the downpour.

  Rumor has it several key players are scrambling since Joey Noe, one of the more prominent bootleggers in the area, was bumped off over a plate of minced beef and spinach cannelloni. I don’t know anything first hand, but the Tombs buzzed for weeks with talk that one of the heads of the five families had taken him out after a dispute at a craps table in Jersey. Now, they’re stuck looking for a new beer runner, making the smaller local importers battle for a foothold.

  It’s not the first time their secret war has spilled onto the streets. More and more violence eats at the heart of the city, and this is the result. Prohibition has turned good people into criminals, and criminals into modern gods.

  Up the street, an elderly woman shrieks at the sight of bodies in the road, dropping a sack of groceries and clutching her pearls with one hand, barely keeping hold of her umbrella with the other. Behind me, footsteps splash through puddles. A glance over my shoulder reveals two uniformed police running for the street.

  Good, let them handle it.

  Looking away, I turn up my collar against the rain, though I’m already soaked through.

  I walk swiftly, stopping only long enough to help the shocked woman repack her bag of potatoes before ducking into the next alley. Wiping my hand down my face, I brush my wet hair back before resuming my trek homeward.

  By the time I arrive at my doorstep, I’m soggy, cold, and my stomach aches with hunger. I pause, my hand on the brass knob. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I turn the handle and step inside.

  My brother rushes me immediately, wrapping his small arms around my waist, his head burrowing into my stomach. He’s grown three inches since I’ve been gone, the last traces of childhood nearly wiped from his face. He’s thin, too, not just lanky but borderline malnourished. A ripple of guilt rolls through me.

  “Careful, Thomas, you’ll get all wet,” I say, rustling his sunshine-yellow hair.

  He pulls away, “That’s okay, Benny. I’m just glad you’re home. I—I mean, Ma and Agnes missed you.”

  “Where is Ma?” I ask, peeking down the hall toward the tiny kitchen.

  He shrugs. “She’s at the cannery. It’s a double-shift day.”

  “And Agnes?”

  “In bed,” he says, his tone deflating.

  Stripping off my jacket, shoes, and socks, I drape them next to the radiator in the corner of the living room. Shuffling down the short hall, I stop outside my room—the small corner room I share with the twins—and push the door open. Curled in her bed, threadbare blankets piled high over her tiny form, Agnes sleeps. Her face is pink with fever, her eyes squeezed shut as if in pain. Her curly yellow hair is matted to her face and pillow, her lips thin and chapped. Not wanting to get the bed wet, I kneel next to her. Reaching out, I touch her forehead. Her cornflower-blue eyes flutter open, and she fights to smile through her cracking lips.

  “Benny, you’re home,” she says light as a whisper before launching into a fit of coughing and spasms.

  Soothing her as best I can, I take her small hand and kiss it. Her flesh is hot and dry.

  “Yeah, I’m home.”

  She licks her lips. “Can I have some water?”

  Thomas is already beside me, holding out a smudged, cracked teacup of clear liquid.

  Taking it from him, I help her get a few sips before she falls back into bed, her eyes closing once more.

  I grab some dry clothes from my dresser and leave the room, closing the door slightly behind me.

  “Has the doctor come?” I ask, following Thomas to the kitchen.

  He scoots a stool up to the sink and begins running water to scrub dishes. “Twice last week. I don’t know what he said, though. Ma wouldn’t tell me. I’m just supposed to look after Agnes while she’s at work.”

  “What about school?” I ask. The twins are seven now, and in the second grade.

  “It’s vacation, for summer.”

  After waiting for this day for so long, I’d forgotten that spring would have faded away so quickly. With a nod, I say, “Let me go change, then I’l
l make us some supper, alright?”

  Turning to me, he smiles widely. “Boy, that’d be great. I don’t think I want sugar beets again.”

  Heading to the bathroom, I take a minute to look at the empty medicine bottles littering the dirty porcelain sink. Various concoctions and tinctures in glass bottles claim to treat everything from fever to gout, but every single one is empty.

  Once I’m dressed, I take a minute to clean up the bathroom before going to the pantry. Thomas wasn’t kidding. Other than a few jars of beets, some cornstarch, and a sack of beans, the cabinet is bare as a bone. I manage to scrounge up some bread, jam, and a few bits of cheese. It’s a far cry from the chiffon pies and jelly rolls Ma had made nearly every night when Pa was still alive, but it will have to do.

  Thomas and I sit at the table, devouring the humble meal, while he fills me in on everything I’ve missed.

  The words pour out of him in a torrent, and I wonder how long it’s been since the kid had anyone other than Agnes and Ma to talk to. Afterward, he takes a small plate of food into Agnes while I clean the kitchen. We listen to the radio for a bit, catching the last few innings of the game, then wile away the day playing cards and discussing the hundreds of things I’ve missed in my absence. When night finally falls. I tuck them both in and then continue cleaning up the tenement, gathering dirty laundry, washing the smudged glass of the main window, and even dusting the old oak shelf where Pa’s family Bible sits, untouched since his passing.

  It’s a little after nine when Ma walks through the door, kicking off her wet boots and shaking off her brown cloche hat before tossing it on the coatrack. Seeing me, she warily walks forward, pulling me into her arms. At first, I think it’s a half-hearted hug, then I realize she’s resting nearly all her weight against me, almost as if she’s fainted. I lift her gently from her feet, carrying her over to Dad’s worn leather armchair before setting her down.

  It’s only then that I get a good look at her in the dim light of the electric lamp. She seems to have aged ten years in the few months I’ve been away. Deep lines penetrate her forehead and cheeks, dark circles sit under her eyes, and her lips are dry and cracked. Even her once-rosy cheeks are sunken and hollow, her normally fair skin tinged with green. Her hair is more silver than blond, pulled back in a fraying bun. Her hands are covered in small, angry cuts, no doubt from the hours spent shucking oysters at work.