“Give it a name, and we’ll see.”
“I’ll trade you the papers you left in my room for a favor.”
Beatrice arched a brow. “The papers for which you have no conceivable purpose and which have no value?”
“Except to you, and you’re lucky I don’t keep them as payment for whatever you were doing loitering around last night.” He didn’t wait for her answer and went back to his room, Beatrice following at a close distance in case he tottered over.
On his desk were the thirty-four pages of his in-progress novel. He picked them up, fingering the edges, then handed them over to her and her terrifying frankness. “Tell me what you think.”
He was amazed how casually he did it.
Tell me what you think.
Not tell me if this thing that defines my anxieties and desires is utter trash; not tell me if I, as a human being, as a person on God’s earth, am any good at all.
He gave them to her as if they were paper and ink and nothing else, not as if he were giving an executioner her ax and stretching his neck on a slab with an invitation: Whenever you’re ready. He wasn’t sure he liked that her opinion was so weighty and sharp, but there it was. She was honest, yes, but more than that, he suspected she was a much better person than he was. He trusted her character, and he was not entirely sure he trusted his own.
“What’s this?” Beatrice held the pages to her chest, looking up.
“My novel. It isn’t finished.”
“And you want to know what I think? Honestly?”
“Are you capable of being anything but?”
No one else would have the fortitude to crush his dreams so thoroughly, if it was indeed absolute rubbish; everyone else actually liked him.
She smiled. “I’m afraid not. You have a deal, Mr. Scott.”
CHAPTER 14
SEEK NOT TO ALTER ME
Maggie’s feet hurt. The Thursday after the Masquerade, a rainy spring was melting into summer, and it made the day muggy. Not quite wet but smelly. Like sour wool and cigarettes and how she felt right now on the inside, but that was New York for you. The smell was part of the whole angry package.
John had left Hey Nonny Nonny Tuesday afternoon and called her yesterday with the time and place for her first audition. He’d moved faster than Maggie had expected, and she’d walked herself to the train station without telling anyone where she was going. The Masquerade had gone off without a hitch, all things considered, so she felt guilty strolling onto a new stage when the old one wasn’t dead and cooled. She was only getting a feel for the lay of things; that was what she told herself.
Not that it mattered.
She’d shown up in front of three white men, only the pianist looking fully sober, and left three minutes later without singing a note.
She strode down the streets of the Village prepared to clock the next sucker to look at her funny. She wore a maroon jacket, an attempt to look professional, but she wished she could throw it in the closest garbage bin. Her return ticket was bunched in her pocket, but with the way she felt, she could stomp her way back to Hey Nonny Nonny and have energy to spare. She heard her name—Margaret, not Maggie—and turned to see John jog across the street. She’d walked by him and not noticed, and normally she was aware of him like a moon to her tide.
Her shoulders loosened. “What’re you doing here?” She kept walking, and he fell into stride beside her. He took off his hat and let it dangle from his fingers. His other hand he kept in his pocket.
“Your audition,” he said. “I parked by the theater. I didn’t think you’d be done so quickly.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
John raised his eyebrows. “How did it go?”
“Rotten,” said Maggie. “Didn’t even get to sing.”
“Why not?”
She spun toward him, pointing at her face. “’Cause this beauty is half a shade darker than a brown paper bag, that’s why.”
John stopped. Anger flickered across his own face.
“Don’t,” she said, reading his expression. “Don’t bother. Not like they’re the only ones to do it. They didn’t like my hair either.” She snorted, then kicked at a passing fire hydrant for good measure.
“Your hair.”
“Too big. Too curly. The girls keep their hair bobbed now, they said. Nice and smooth.”
“If I had known . . .” John began.
“Who you were keeping wet? Whatever. The joint was seedy anyway. Hold this, I’m hotter than Hades.” She wrestled her jacket off and thrust it at him so she could adjust her blouse.
His head tipped in the direction she’d come. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
“Fine.” She followed him down the sidewalk, considered for a moment, then looped her arm through his. He stiffened but didn’t try to get free. She wanted this boy for today, and anyone could just try and tell her otherwise. “Nothing better to do than drive a girl all the way back to Long Island?”
“You shouldn’t travel alone.”
Maggie laughed. She couldn’t help it. Sometimes that was the only way to get where you needed to go, as he well knew. “I can handle myself.”
“I know.”
“Sounds like an excuse to get me alone with you.”
Now he wriggled to get his arm loose. “I didn’t say—”
“Buy me an ice cream”—she interrupted—“and we’ll call it even.”
When John pulled that shmancy silver car of his into Hey Nonny Nonny, he paused. He glanced over at the Lambda and the Model T, accounting for each; then he turned off the ignition.
“What’s Prince into that you’re so worried about?” Maggie asked.
“Who says he’s into anything?”
“I don’t know, but I overheard a phone conversation the other day . . .” John straightened, the interest in his eyes sharpening to deadly points. Maggie pointed at him. “Aha! See? There wasn’t any phone conversation.”
John sat back in the seat, rolling his eyes. “Let me take care of Pedro.”
“Seems like Pedro can take care of himself.”
“Seems like you should mind your own beeswax.”
Hearing such schoolyard slang out of his mouth, Maggie laughed. Only at his lips softly curving did she realize he’d probably done it on purpose to distract her.
“What would you have sung?” he asked quietly, gaze drifting to the porch.
“Hmm?”
“If they’d given you a chance. What song?”
“‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow.’”
His eyes closed. “Good choice.”
She looked over at him and allowed one minute to feel sorry for herself. She’d done a great disservice to her heart by soaking up his company willy-nilly this past week. His collar was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled just enough on his forearms to be out of the way as he rested his fingers on the steering wheel. The song he was silently hearing played out over his face.
Damn. She’d gone and let herself fall in love with him. Again. This was the third time, but she had a good head for common sense and could usually talk herself out of it by asking one question: So what? So what if some days he understood her better than anyone ever had? So what if they’d had whole conversations without saying a word, using only music? So what if his quiet strength and disregard for societal niceties was often exactly what she needed? So what if she found every part of him, from the harsh slant of his eyebrows when he frowned to the invisible darkness he carried under the surface, the most beautiful thing in the world? So what?
The facts were these:
He never ate sweets, and Maggie loved sweets.
They disagreed about Josephine Baker.
He could be obstinate, detached, and unapologetically ruthless.
And his skin was not the same color as her skin.
There you had it. Show’s over, folks.
They walked inside together. John handed over her jacket but froze before he let go. His eyes darted to the drawing room. Ea
rs like a bat, Maggie thought, hurrying after him as he crossed the foyer.
Prince sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, papers and maps spread out. The sight, in and of itself, was not unusual. Prince was always working. Maybe nothing would have happened, except that when Prince glanced up and saw John, he immediately slid two of the papers under the others, out of sight.
John ticked, like a car changing gears. He strode into the room.
Maggie hesitated, then followed. “John brought me home from the city,” she said, apologetic. Prince had been obviously relieved when John finally left on Tuesday; now here she was hauling him back.
Prince dragged his gaze from John to her. “What were you doing in the city?”
“Oh. You know, just scoping horn talent . . .” She trailed off, the lie catching like a fish bone in her throat. John would tell her not to feel guilty for doing what she had to for her singing career, but even if Hey Nonny Nonny had one foot in the grave, the other was still in the land of the living. And here was Prince, burning the midnight oil to keep it there. The same boy who chased off handsy patrons after the raucous numbers and taught her the Italian lullabies his mother used to sing to him.
“Planning new trade routes?” John asked. He sat, the picture of unconcern, on the couch across from Prince. “Do you have the extra money to buy them back?”
Nobody said anything.
John didn’t sound accusatory; he sounded politely interested in how someone else was faring in the business.
Maggie slowly lowered herself into an armchair.
After a long minute Prince apparently decided to treat the question as if it had been asked in sincerity. “No. We don’t have that kind of money, and even if we did, we’ve compromised a foundation of trust. We’d always get the worst bargains from our old suppliers. Perhaps we could stay alive that way, but we won’t profit.”
John’s eyes gleamed. You’re right, Maggie translated the look. But was John upset that Prince was right—or glad?
“I think our best chance at making money is to change,” Prince said softly. “Start a new enterprise, bigger than what we’ve been doing.”
“How so?” John’s voice went even quieter than his brother’s.
Maggie was sure her heartbeat was audible. She didn’t know Prince as well as Hero knew him, but she understood his ambition and decency often went to war with each other. Most often that amounted to a near inhuman work ethic, but sometimes she saw in him the same thing she recognized in herself, the wanting, the urge to do whatever was necessary for a chance at what you knew in your gut you already deserved. It made you cutthroat.
This time decency won out.
Prince shifted one of the bigger maps around so John could see it. He pulled a red pencil from behind his ear. The past seemed to settle in the room with them. However long ago, there’d been trust between them, and protection. Prince drew a curved arc just off Long Island’s coast. “I think Nassau County is a missed opportunity. The most prominent rum-running ports—and, therefore, the most heavily watched—are in New York Harbor and Atlantic City. Shipments have to be in and out quick. But if you sent your shipments through the Bronx into Manhattan, nobody would look twice.”
John’s face tightened. “The land mileage is significantly higher. Not to mention you’d have to get it through the East River, which means another boat. You’d lose money.”
“I thought of that.”
John made a noise that was half frustration, half desperation.
“You only lose money if you have to reach Manhattan in a certain time frame, but if you had the option of storing large quantities with a low likelihood of being searched, you could make that difference up. Hey Nonny Nonny is a perfect holdover; plus there are only two Coast Guard boats patrolling the entire North Shore, and the coves and terrain make it difficult to be detected. And—” He held up a hand to John’s reddening face. “The families around here don’t go to speakeasies; they host their own parties. Having booze brought right to their door, as long as it was good quality, would make a killing.” He paused, met John’s eyes. “I can make Hey Nonny Nonny an asset, but I need someone who already has a bootlegging racket in place. Don Vito could keep a share—”
“No.” John’s voice swung down like a hammer.
Prince fell silent.
“No,” John repeated, nearly a whisper. He put both hands on the table and leaned toward Prince. “Anna and Leo Stahr were not bootleggers; they were club owners, who happened to have a comparatively tiny supply and demand for alcohol. The operation run by Don Vito is a bootlegging, extortion, loan-sharking, gambling business worth millions of dollars. This is laughable; you wouldn’t cover the price of the bullets they’d use to plug you for asking in the first place, bastardo.”
Prince’s face shuttered. Even Maggie winced. With clear effort, Prince said quietly, “But you could ask. I’m half Italian, and if you vouched for me—”
“I wouldn’t put my word on anything so sure to fail.”
Prince’s fist hit the table, rattling the coffee cups, but he composed himself a sharp breath later. He slid the map off and folded it with deliberate calmness. After he’d gathered the papers, he stood and stared down until John, slightly braced, as if Prince were going to strike him next, also rose. Prince was still a bit taller. “You can’t punish me for her forever,” he said.
John, hit after all, turned his head, and Prince stalked out of the room.
When he was gone, John slumped in his seat and pushed his hands into his slick black hair.
Maggie should leave him alone. Even if John wasn’t John, the inner workings of the mob were none of her business. But Prince was. “Do you have to be so hard on him?” she asked softly.
John said nothing.
“I thought his idea sounded all right.”
“It was all right. It was better than all right; it was smart.”
Maggie frowned. “Then why’d you make out like he was some dummy for even suggesting it?”
John lifted his head from his hands, his hair disheveled. Maggie stood and came over to sit by his side. “He’s too smart. Everyone knows not to touch Hey Nonny Nonny, but he made sure they couldn’t ignore him. He doesn’t need my approval if he wants to do this. Only the old bosses refuse to work with non-Italians. He’s sharp, a good fighter; they’d take him and his ideas. They’d run him dry, and if things didn’t work out, they could shoot him between the eyes and there’d be no score to settle, no vendetta. Because he’s nobody.”
Except to you, Maggie thought, and having John Morello on your tail didn’t seem like any kind of picnic to her.
“So help him,” Maggie said. “He doesn’t need you, but he came to you. Just now. And you threw the offer back in his face.”
“I don’t want him involved at all, Margaret. Do you think it’d be any better for him working for me? He’d get half a dozen new enemies just by being my brother, and Hey Nonny Nonny with him. He’s in over his head.”
“Why not just tell him you’re worried about him?”
“He thinks I’m lying to keep him from muscling into the family business.”
“I can see why he might not think your concern was coming from a place of affection. I’d think you hated me, too.”
John averted his eyes; he remained cold, like tightly coiled steel. You couldn’t force him like this. You had to unwind him first, or he’d snap.
“Who’s the her he mentioned? Your mother?”
She brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear. He said nothing, and she sighed. “You won’t convince him to leave it alone by making your side look bad. What he wants is to stay at Hey Nonny Nonny; no convincing necessary. If you want Prince to mind his own business, help his business stay open.”
“I can’t just donate crates of booze every weekend, and I don’t have time to stick around all summer. I came last weekend to make sure the giamoke didn’t get himself shot before the main Canadian shipment was through.”
> So much for flattering herself into thinking he’d lingered for her sake.
“Although,” John murmured, “I could make sure it goes under.”
Maggie stiffened. “What?”
“He’s hounding bootlegging rackets because he needs booze. You said yourself he won’t leave Hey Nonny Nonny. If there wasn’t a speakeasy to supply, there’s no reason he wouldn’t find honest work instead.”
“Oh, John.”
It wasn’t that he was wrong.
On the contrary, he was very much right. Prince cared about bootlegging only insofar as it concerned Hey Nonny Nonny and Hero.
“I’ll make sure you get a singing contract somewhere,” he said. “A good one.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” she protested.
John’s face boarded up immediately.
“I shouldn’t have told you.” Any of it, the ensuing silence added. The voice of someone who’d learned to trust nothing and no one. Maybe if she hadn’t been so recently in love with him again, it would have felt less devastating to watch him pull away.
But as it was . . .
“Listen to me.” She took hold of his chin and waited until he looked at her. Wary, he met her gaze. “Leave the speakeasy out of it, and I’ll help you keep an eye on Prince, okay? I don’t want him hurt any more than you do.”
He remained uncertain, so she pulled out the best weapon in her arsenal. She hooked her hands over his shoulder and sang into his ear. “‘When the things you’ve planned need a helping hand, I will understand,’” she sang. “‘Always, always. Days may not be fair always. That’s when I’ll be there always.’”
“All right.” He leaned away, with a breathless laugh. “Dirty play, Hughes,” he grumbled under his breath, but he found a piece of paper and wrote his address and phone number down, the first time he’d ever given them to her.
CHAPTER 15
BAIT THE HOOK WELL; THIS FISH WILL BITE
Tell me what you think.
What a brilliant phrase. Not that Beatrice had ever needed an invitation to tell anyone her thoughts, but it was nice to have one anyway.
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