Speak Easy, Speak Love

by McKelle George

  Had meant, rather.

  He was free. He didn’t care about shoes; he didn’t care about any of it.

  Claude was in the surf nearly waist deep, a hefty sack slung on his shoulder, his other hand out for lost liquor or whatever else the ocean felt keen to throw at him.

  Benedick hefted the crate a good yard away from the water’s edge. The soggy rattling was a familiar sound, even if the method of attainment was not. He strained to see through the mist, expecting the roar of a runner boat any moment, a shouted warning, the click of a gun cocking. The usual.

  Weeks ago, when Benedick had asked Prince how their supply looked for the Masquerade, Prince had answered, “I’m sorting out some negotiations that will keep us flush once it pans out.”

  Was this part of those negotiations? Scavenging like buzzards?

  More troubling was the insignia amid the FRESH VEGETABLES and ROUTE TRANSPORT on the crates—an insignificant-looking black stencil mark. One of the first things Leo had taught Benedick when he started helping Prince was that symbol: “If you ever see any shipment with this mark on it, you leave it be. No matter if you’re sure it was supposed to be yours. You walk away. That’s the Genovese family mark, and I don’t want Hey Nonny Nonny caught up in that kind of business.”

  Claude set two sacks heavily into the gritty sand by Benedick’s crate. “Do you think they mind?” he asked, as if he’d heard Benedick’s musings. “Whoever these belong to?”

  “They won’t know the difference.” Prince hauled over a third crate; he knocked his boot against it to get a stray piece of kelp off. “Far as they know, they’re lost to sea.”

  There was no chance that Benedick had noticed the Genovese family mark while Prince hadn’t. Instead of asking outright if Prince had targeted this particular shipment, Benedick came at the question sideways: “Who’s your lookout anyhow?”

  Prince’s glance was sharp as a thorn. Then he was all shrugs and another lit cigarette was quickly stuffed in the corner of his mouth. “You wouldn’t know him. I’ll grab that last one; then let’s hit the road. Any more ain’t going to fit.”

  Benedick said nothing. When it came to Prince’s very long-lost relatives, the best course of action was to wait, instead of poking inside and losing a finger.

  They dragged a total of four crates and three canvas sacks up to the Model T and crammed them all in the backseat. Prince sang under his breath as they loaded, “You back-firin’, spark plug foulin’ Hunka Tin,” the same war tune Leo always serenaded to the Tin Lizzie, and it warmed the bad whiskey in Benedick’s gut with a feeling like home. Benedick gently maneuvered his typewriter under the dash so Claude could fit up front with them.

  “Suppose we run into any police?” Claude asked as they pulled away from the coast onto a thin road.

  “We’ll keep on the back paths,” said Benedick. “Anyway, there’s hardly any patrol on Long Island.”

  Which made the sudden appearance of a car behind them all the more jarring.

  “Prince—”

  Prince chucked his cigarette out the window. “I see them.”

  “See who?” Claude asked.

  The engine whined as Prince pressed harder on the gas pedal. The lack of surprise on his face was not comforting. They gained a little distance, only to veer around a corner and find a pickup truck shooting out of a skinny back road right in front of them. Prince slammed on the brakes, and the Model T skid to a swerving halt, leaving scant inches between them and the bed of the truck. The crates of alcohol behind them rattled and cracked. Benedick let out a breath, hands braced on the dash.

  The truck’s driver door opened, and a thickset man walked out. His mouth was full of the kind of grimy teeth that would make even a sincere smile look bad. And his smile was not sincere. In the passenger’s seat a younger man glowered. “I think you know why we’ve stopped you this fine morning and why, when our shipments have been a few counts low of what we ordered this past month, we’ve been inclined to let it slide.” He spread his hands, as if to demonstrate the generosity he’d offered.

  Prince had gone still; he was scarcely breathing.

  The man took a step closer to their car. He snapped gloved fingers, and the young man in the passenger’s seat opened the door, an automatic rifle in both hands. “So here’s the deal, kid,” the man said. “You hand over what belongs to us and stay the hell away from our coast routes, and we’ll say no more. That’s the smart choice. Otherwise we teach you how to make smart choices.”

  “The crates,” Claude whispered. “Right? We can give them back.”

  Benedick glanced at Prince, whose eyes narrowed.

  Sorry, Claude.

  Prince muttered, “Goddamned Italians,” under his breath. He made a vulgar gesture over the steering wheel, then jerked the reverse stick into place. Benedick muttered a thank you to whatever god was listening that the engine hadn’t quit in their unplanned stop. Prince pounded the gas pedal, and they lurched back.

  Another set of headlights appeared behind them, the direction they were hurtling toward. In his newfound freedom Benedick had thought he didn’t give a damn what became of him. It seemed he cared after all. He at least wanted to live.

  Looking over his shoulder, Prince said, “Get the gun out from under the seat.”

  Benedick crouched down and found Leo’s rifle. The weapon felt awkward in his hands. “Give that here,” Claude said. With the rifle in one hand, he angled himself out the side window, his foot braced on the seat. One well-aimed shot took out the left headlight of the car behind them. “Ha! That’s what three seasons fox hunting gets you—”

  An answering bullet blasted apart one of the crates in the back. Benedick’s first panicked thought was for his typewriter. Prince yanked the steering wheel around, and they slammed over the edge of the road into the weeds, hard enough that the car bucked and Benedick had to grab Claude around the legs to keep him from falling out.

  The Tin Lizzie swerved several yards off the road, tires squealing as Prince braked and changed gears. “Take over the wheel,” he said.

  Before Benedick could ask what in God’s almighty name Prince was doing, his friend had flown out the door.

  “I dropped the gun,” Claude gasped as he collapsed back into his seat.

  Benedick craned his neck and watched, in the grayness of dawn, as Prince grabbed the rifle out of the dirt, bent down on one knee, and cocked the gun against his shoulder. The car chasing them blazed past, blowing off Prince’s cap. He fired a shot that took out the back tire. The car skidded and careened, both passengers cursing in Italian. The truck, roaring in the other direction, braked, kicking up dirt to avoid hitting them.

  “My God,” Claude said, “he’s terrifying.”

  That jerked Benedick out of his reverie. He fumbled into the driver’s spot. The gears ground with his clumsy shifting, but by the time Prince jumped in through the opposite door, Claude frantically scooting to make room, they were moving—away from the road.

  Another shot blasted through their backseat, and Benedick instinctively ducked, foot pressing the pedal down, as if that would help.

  “Watch where you’re going!” Prince barked as Benedick pitched them around a cluster of trees, branches clawing the car’s side. The wheels took the bumps and ruts hard, further pummeling their precious load.

  They crested a hill and hurtled toward nothing but rocky coastline and what appeared to be a small cliff. Prince released a string of poetic curses though Benedick paid attention only to the “damned brakes!” part of it.

  He braked hard just before they hit the edge, but they tipped forward anyway. “Oh, God, oh, God,” Claude muttered. Instead of tumbling into the ocean, they rolled down a relatively unimposing slope. Prince lurched over and grabbed the steering wheel. Throwing his whole weight into it, he wrenched them under the lip of a ridge, narrowly missing a craggy boulder. The engine died.

  For several seconds they sat in silence, the only sound their quieting breaths. The su
n peeked over the ocean horizon, mockingly picturesque. Benedick sneaked a glance first at Claude, then at Prince. Claude’s cheeks were high with color, but other than that, he was still among the living and functional. Prince, cool as jazz, touched his hair. “Damn. I liked that hat.”

  “It was a very fine hat,” Claude managed to say, voice thin.

  Benedick laughed; he couldn’t help it.

  “Prince,” he said once his mirth had faded, rubbing the side of his nose. Most of the bottles had broken, running their contents all over the floor of the Model T. “Be a sport—won’t you?—and reach under to see if Isabella is broken or drowning in whiskey.”

  Prince twisted and felt under the seat. “She’s fine.”

  “On the bright side,” said Claude, “we won’t be easy to find here.”

  “Won’t be easy to haul the car up either,” said Prince. “Ben?” He waited until Benedick looked across and met his eyes; Prince’s gaze was apologetic, searching. “You’re all right?”

  “Just jake. Blaine?”

  “Been worse, all things considered.”

  “In that case.” Prince turned on one knee, hunting around the ruin in the backseat. A minute later Benedick held the one-inch remains of a broken bottle of whiskey; Claude, a bottle of gin, which leaked into his lap through a long crack up the side.

  “Boys,” said Prince, holding up his replenished flask, “may we live to be shot at another day. Salute.”

  “Cheers,” said Benedick.

  They drank, and Claude made a low sound in his throat. “Jesus.” He coughed. “No wonder they were upset.”

  CHAPTER 2

  LADY DISDAIN ARE YOU YET LIVING?

  Beatrice Clark sat on her trunk, her chin in hand. The sun was hot already, even in May, but she refused to wait on the porch of the picturesque little lodge at the entrance gate. She stayed on the very side of the road, as far from the property as she was allowed to be. St. Mary’s Society for Wayward Girls and Fallen Young Women occupied a lonely edge of Inwood Hill Park, with a winding drive leading up to it, and it was surrounded by a stucco stone wall. Difficult to scale, but a few girls had managed it before the trees had been chopped down. The ridge overlooked the Hudson River, and kept irreparable girls like Beatrice out of sight of the respectable people of Manhattan.

  Tiredness hovered within reach like a crouched fox waiting for a chicken, but she didn’t give in to it. You couldn’t get too comfortable; that was the trick. The comfortable way was usually wherever the current was going, and Beatrice rarely found herself wanting to go in that direction.

  When the headmistress at Miss Nightingale’s School had told her there was no money left for the last semester’s tuition, Beatrice had been stunned; that was all. “We sent several notices to your father,” Miss Nightingale said. “We received no reply.”

  Stepfather. Beatrice had mentally corrected her. “No, I don’t suppose you would have.” She’d guessed this might happen. She knew how much her mother’s inheritance was and how much Miss Nightingale’s School cost. Math was one of her best subjects, and she’d been aware from the start that she was just a little short.

  But she’d worked so hard on his farm, every summer, and paid for a train ticket whenever he wrote and demanded her help, even when he got that bad attack of gout right before midterms. When he said they’d make up the difference in the end, as long as she did her share, well, she’d assumed that was the truth.

  She’d believed in a lie, because the alternative was too hard.

  “We will of course arrange for your safe return to Virginia. And perhaps,” Miss Nightingale had suggested gently, in the face of Beatrice’s steely expression, “you may complete your schooling in the fall, should the remainder of your tuition be paid?”

  Beatrice had nodded; there’d been nothing else to do, so it felt, but pack her things, allowing herself to be helped into a winter coat and her trunk and suitcase hauled in a taxi to Grand Central Station. And so the current pulled. She stepped onto the sidewalk. Exhaust fumes, spiked by the scent of grilled sausages, weaved through the January air. She stared at the one-way ticket between her gloved fingertips. If she left the city now, she would never return.

  A porter’s furious curse brought her attention back. “Jesus Mary,” the young man muttered, then glanced at her with a blush. “Begging your pardon, miss, it’s just, what you got in this thing? A dead body?” He hauled her trunk out of the taxi’s backseat.

  “Parts of one,” said Beatrice.

  The porter snorted and dragged the trunk the rest of the way onto a luggage cart, though Beatrice had not been joking. He secured her suitcase on top and asked, “Where to, miss?”

  Beatrice said nothing.

  “Miss? Which terminal? If you’ll let me see your ticket, we can find it, no trouble.”

  In reply, Beatrice let the ticket go. The rush of a passing car caught it and swirled it away from them. It landed several yards away in the gutter and was soaked instantly in oily slush.

  The porter cursed. “Goddamn! That wasn’t your ticket, was it?”

  “Excuse me, may I see this for a moment?” Beatrice tried to push the porter’s hands off the luggage cart.

  His grip tightened around the iron handlebar, and he frowned. “What for? Look, we’ll go to the ticket office and get you sorted— Ow! What the hell?”

  Beatrice snaked her boot around the back of his heel as she gave him a hard shove in the chest, which sent him wheeling back and then toppling over the curb.

  “Thanks for your help!” she called over her shoulder, and threw her weight into pushing the cart forward. It took a few seconds to gain momentum, but at a rattling jog she hit the intersection, where a milk truck nearly plowed her over. The driver swerved and called her a “dumb broad!” out his window, fist shaking.

  “Sorry!” Beatrice gasped, hand out, but she kept going, pushing against the current of her life, running block after exhausting block, her breath clouding in the January afternoon. She was quite firm with herself whenever she felt like stopping. When she finally did stop, angry that her trembling body couldn’t manage one step farther, she half wilted onto an apartment building’s stoop but made herself stand. Out loud, she said, “Hold it right here, Beatrice Clark,” and after a few minutes, satisfied she had control of her fear again, she sat on the lowest step.

  Of course the sun went down, and it didn’t take long for the landlord to call the police about a girl shivering on his stoop. When asked for her name, she refused to give it, and she ended up at St. Mary’s, which she supposed was nicer than a jail cell, but not by much.

  Still, better than the streets in winter.

  Once her wits were about her, and she’d maintained a farce of docility long enough to be allowed letter privileges, she’d written to Miss Mayple, the only teacher at Miss Nightingale’s School for Young Ladies to care more for a girl’s understanding of advanced mathematics than how well she kept her legs crossed while balancing a book on her head. The first most important matter of business was whether or not Beatrice could take her exams later, if she could find the money, and still graduate. Secondly, Beatrice had an uncle. His name was Leonard Stahr. He lived with his wife and daughter on Long Island somewhere, but that was as far as her childhood memory stretched. Beatrice’s birth father had died in the war before she turned eight, and her stepfather had wanted absolutely nothing to do with his wife’s former in-laws—a radical, unseemly bunch, as he put it.

  Beatrice didn’t let herself hope too much, especially without a penny to her name, but two weeks ago the head matron had received a letter from one Leonard Stahr, requesting care of his niece as soon as possible.

  “Mr. Stahr,” the matron had replied, “while we at the society always appreciate the compassion of extended family members, we feel it wise to inform you that removing Miss Clark from the home at this point in time may not be in her best interest. As I understand, you have not seen her in nearly a decade, and it pains me to inform you t
hat she is going to ruin as quickly as a girl can. We have reasonable cause to believe she was the instigator of a riot among a group of young girls last month. She threw a clock out a window.”

  Yes, well, Beatrice would pay for the clock. That was fair. She’d been very angry, and the doctor had refused to listen to her. A lot of girls at St. Mary’s had worked the bars, brothels, and alleyways of lower Manhattan before being “rescued” by the society. They carried any number of sicknesses with them, which meant frequent visits from a physician. The learned gentleman had been administering douche and mercury treatments for venereal diseases—hypodermic doses twice a week until twenty (twenty!) doses were swimming like collected poison inside already sick girls.

  One, in particular, had looked halfway to her grave.

  Clock throwing was to be expected with that sort of idiocy; that was what Beatrice thought, but even so, she did try, she did say: “She’s clearly suffering from bichloride mercury poisoning; she needs a hospital.” (Though Beatrice might not have listened to herself, either, since she had also prefaced it with “you incompetent fool.”)

  Leonard Stahr had replied: “I first met my late wife marching at the head of a women’s suffragette parade. So I must say, with respect to your position, that I have a deep fondness for rioting women, and you could not have made my niece more appealing to me if she came adorned with a cash prize. We will arrive to pick her up Friday morning, the thirteenth of May.”

  Beatrice knew this because the matron had given the letter back, along with the rest of her belongings, and refused to let Beatrice use any of the society’s supplies as she was no longer “its responsibility.” That meant no soap for three days and sleeping without sheets, but the other girls shared, and Beatrice wouldn’t have minded even if they hadn’t.

  Late wife.

  Her aunt had died. Beatrice’s first thought, the cold reasoning of a survivor, was thank God that it wasn’t her uncle who’d gone, that she was still blood related to the remaining members of the Stahr family. She winced at her own callousness. Her memories of Aunt Anna were warm and filled with high bell-like laughter.