Speak Easy, Speak Love

by McKelle George

  “That’s not our champagne,” Benedick whispered.

  “Well, it was brought into your speakeasy, and it’s your name on the delivery receipt.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Dogberry shrugged; the daisy bobbed up and down. “Then I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Conrade Minsky. Son of a bitch.

  It was too late, far too late for it to matter, but Benedick still stepped away from them. “Raid,” he said, voice cracking a little. His eyes closed briefly. Then he yelled: “Raid!” The music ground to a halt. “Up and at ’em, ladies and gents; we’re on the lam. Move it right now, or we’re blaming you.”

  A ripple of confused laughter, and then finally people shuffled toward the exit, looking around for the gun-toting bureau. Dogberry, decidedly gunless, shook his head.

  CHAPTER 29

  I WOULD EAT HIS HEART IN THE MARKET-PLACE

  Stairs.

  Beatrice hated stairs. Among other things. They’d trudged up the first set into the pantry, and now they faced the main stairs descending into the pantry. Hero had turned into a sniffling weight on her hip and now decided this was as far as she wanted to go and wilted onto the first step without further ado.

  Beyond the front door, voices swelled, car doors opened and closed, engines started.

  Perhaps without the main attraction, the party was over. Good, she thought.

  “Uncle Leo,” she said, turning, but she’d lost him in the journey from pantry to foyer. He’d managed to give Prince the boot with something suggesting sobriety, but he was not sober. He had soaked up the unfiltered champagne like a thirsty sponge. He’d blubbered worse than Hero up the stairs, mourning the speakeasy, Hero’s childhood, or maybe Prince. Prince, who was God knew where like a coward instead of looking the damage he caused in the eye. Claude might be in a gutter, for all she knew.

  Beatrice was itching to hate the male race in general, but then Benedick appeared, Uncle Leo draped on his shoulders. “Here we go,” Benedick muttered. Hold on, he mouthed to Beatrice, then helped Uncle Leo to the drawing room couch. Beatrice, who never held on for any boy, waited for him and was more than a little glad when he returned.

  He knelt next to Hero. “Here, sweetheart, let me help you.”

  Hero resisted for a moment, but his touch was gentle, his voice so caring Beatrice hardly believed it belonged to him. With a tiny nod, Hero allowed him to tuck one arm under her knees and the other against her back. He hoisted her up. “Thatta girl.”

  Beatrice let go, but Hero lunged for her wrist. “Beatrice!”

  “I’m here,” Beatrice said, weaving her fingers into Hero’s. She’d never seen her cousin like this. Her cries faded to shuddery breaths and the occasional soft moan. Beatrice went ahead and opened the door, so Benedick could set Hero on her bed. Bent over, Benedick lifted his eyes to meet Beatrice’s, but before either could say anything, Hero clutched Beatrice again. “Get this dress off me,” she croaked. Yanking at the fabric, she attempted to sit up. “Get it off!”

  She twisted and dug at her collar. Beatrice’s jaw set, and she moved decisively behind her and worked at the zipper. Benedick joined her without a word, and together they undid every button, unclipped every piece of jewelry.

  “You should go,” said Beatrice, not looking at Benedick.

  Briefly touching her shoulder, he left.

  No thanks to Hero’s panicked flailing, Beatrice managed to tear the dress off her. Her underclothes were just as stained, and Beatrice stripped her of those, too. “Good riddance,” Beatrice said, gathering the entire bundle in her arms and tossing it out the window, before coming to tuck her cousin—naked, pale, and shivering—into the sheets.

  Beatrice lay next to her. Hero stank like cigarette smoke and booze. “It’s okay,” said Beatrice, running fingers over her hair, past her shoulder.

  “I know what everyone says about me, lock up your husbands, but I only flirt.” Her eyes squeezed closed.

  “Oh, Hero.” Beatrice kept stroking her hair. Poor Hero, longing for true love with all her tough little heart. Beatrice stayed until Hero’s breathing evened out. Then she crept downstairs to the drawing room, where Benedick was tugging one of Uncle Leo’s shoes off, making him comfortable.

  “My girl was always a brat of a biddy,” Leo said to himself. “Never listened to her betters. Can’t clean a rug without ruining it and don’t even know how to make tomato soup, but she can out-curse any sailor. Perfect. Just perfect.”

  Beatrice sank onto the love seat. In moments Uncle Leo was snoring. Crying wouldn’t help, so she didn’t, or at least she told herself very strictly not to. She assumed Benedick would leave but was surprised when his weight settled beside her, perfectly; the moment he did she felt more centered. He touched the corner of her eye.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. I don’t care for it.”

  Embarrassed, she wiped at her eyes.

  “Don’t do that,” he said, drawing her against his chest. She resisted for a moment, then crumpled against his chest. She cried right into his tender heart. “I’m not sad”—she sniffed—“so you know. I’m very angry.”

  “The devil you aren’t.” He responded by pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket to give to her: pristine white, with a satin silver border around the edge, the initials BJS embroidered in the corner, probably worth more than her entire outfit. Of course he didn’t love her. Not this boy—who belonged to the world of the brilliant, beautiful, and rich, and himself a hazardous package of all three—but who only seemed to want, of all the silly things, to be happy.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “On Park Avenue! Drinking fine wine and blowing your nose with dollar bills! Examining how the world looks laid at your feet instead of dangling out of reach! Not—not writing some stupid novel and sitting on a ratty couch while some lunatic girl yells at you!”

  She leaned over and buried her face in her hands. Then she told herself to stop her nonsense. That argument didn’t even make sense. With a deep breath, she opened her mouth to apologize—tiredly, dejectedly, with no idea why she’d lashed out in the first place—but he laughed. Laughed.

  God, he was unrelenting. There was something deliberately pigheaded in the way he continued to miss the gist. “Some boys never learn,” she said.

  “I prefer you in snapping form,” he said, “like a turtle.”

  She laughed and thought, I love you.

  That was when she fell, tumbled right off the branch, with no bottom in sight.

  She poked at the feeling the way one might a rabid animal and discovered it was not only there but alive. Of course she loved him.

  She blushed to her hairline.

  He gave her an odd look. “Now what?”

  Now what indeed? A fine time to fall in love with a fellow, after he tells you he only just managed to endure your presence because he thought you loved him, and thank God he didn’t fall in love back. Hypothetically, she might say, I love you after all. Quite seriously. He’d be so disappointed.

  And wasn’t she relieved, too? She’d never wanted this; the whole thing was a damned nuisance and a distraction, and she was glad to be done with it.

  She shifted away. “What happened with the party?”

  “Broke up.”

  “I hope Conrade is pleased with himself.”

  “We can at least satisfy ourselves that he’s saddled with a zozzled and weeping Claude Blaine the rest of the evening.” He breathed slowly, sounding as weary as she felt. “Go to sleep, Beatrice. Trouble keeps overnight. We’ll tackle it fresh in the morning.”

  There was something else, something he wasn’t telling her. But then they weren’t partners. Weren’t in love. So why should he want her comfort or support? She nodded, added something about her head feeling terrible, and went back upstairs to Hero’s room.

  The next morning Hero was gone. Beatrice reached for her, but her h
and met with depressed sheets. The clock said ten minutes past nine o’clock. She hurried to get dressed. “Hero?” Beatrice checked the washroom first, but it was empty.

  In the drawing room she found Benedick where she’d left him, sprawled on the love seat. Uncle Leo was possibly dead. Benedick’s jacket was draped on a nearby chair, but otherwise he was still done up in his dress clothes. She hesitated, not sure if it was fair to wake him up, but he roused as she came in, sitting up and rubbing his face. He looked entirely put together in less than a second, as if the world couldn’t give him enough problems to stop him from functioning at top form. If Beatrice hadn’t been so worried about Hero, she’d have been annoyed.

  “Hero isn’t in her room,” she said.

  “Try downstairs in the speakeasy.”

  Beatrice turned to go, then paused. “Did you sleep here all night?”

  “I . . . was waiting for Prince.”

  “He didn’t come back,” she guessed.

  “No.” His face stayed placid, but his eyes were pinched.

  She nearly mentioned that Prince deserved a night in the cold after what he had put Hero through, but Benedick’s expression stopped her. “He’ll turn up,” she said instead. “This is his home.”

  Hey Nonny Nonny was ransacked. Overturned tables, shattered glass. The air was ripe with spilled champagne and wilting gardenias. The only light was from the chandelier hanging from the ceiling like an upside-down bouquet. The leftover mess looked eerie beneath the rain of glittery light. The corners of the basement remained invisible. It was like looking at a dream or a bad memory.

  Hero was sitting in the far corner of the stage, where the old piano had been shoved, plunking out round after dreary round of “Chopsticks.” She wore a gray dress, tight buttons at the wrist and a high collar with a small lace border. A white wrap held back her hair and made her look like a poor milkmaid. There was not a touch of rouge to her cheeks, and her eyelashes were so bare and pale they were nearly invisible.

  All this was nothing compared with her eyes. Hollow; windows into an empty room. Her hands stilled as Beatrice climbed onto the stage and sat beside her. “Hero.”

  Hero inhaled slowly, mouth forming a small smile. The expression was only a positioning of muscle; it gave no light to her eyes. “Good morning, Beatrice.”

  Beatrice tried to smile back. “Are you all right?”

  “I feel better, yes.”

  Beatrice waited, and Hero went back to staring off the empty stage.

  “What are you doing here?” Beatrice asked.

  “Saying good-bye. Saying I’m sorry.”

  Beatrice swallowed and set her hands on her cousin’s, as if she could massage life back into them. “It was only one bad night, Hero, and none of it was your fault.”

  For a long time Hero gave no indication she heard her. Then she blinked. That tiny action was enough to startle Beatrice.

  “I didn’t kiss John,” Hero said in a flat tone, and Beatrice’s stomach twisted. “But I may as well have, for how easily they accepted it. Of course she did it, that’s what they were thinking. She’s just the kind of girl who would.”

  A fresh wave of anger crept over Beatrice. She imagined viciously puncturing every one of the bloated faces that dared judge Hero last night.

  Tears leaked down Hero’s cheeks. Watching the slow, salty tracks trail from such deadened eyes was an eerie sight. “I miss my mother so much,” she whispered.

  “I know,” said Beatrice, leaning in.

  “No one would have believed a rumor like that about her.” Hero closed her eyes. The girl Beatrice had admired only days ago was so absent from the one in front of her that it was as if she’d died. Where was that minxlike wit? The impression of something about to explode out of her, something you wanted? This girl was flattened, buried under glacial guilt.

  “Hero,” Beatrice begged, clinging to her, “please come back upstairs with me.”

  “Not yet,” said Hero. “He’s gone.”

  “Who? Claude? Good riddance, I say—”

  “Prince. You didn’t see how he looked at me. Like I was trash.”

  “Prince was wrong. Not you. He ought to be the one groveling and moping. Not you.”

  “Don’t you see? Even if he was wrong this time, I’ve done a hundred other things to make him leave, given him a hundred other reasons. I pushed him too far.”

  “Enough! I can’t take this miserable wallowing when this isn’t your fault!”

  For the first time life blazed into Hero’s face. She glared at Beatrice. “Oh, now you’re going to judge me, too? Because I’m not acting feminist enough for your tastes? What do you know, Beatrice Clark? You’ve never loved anyone in your life.”

  “I love you, you dumb girl.” Beatrice sighed, rubbed a hand on her forehead. “And I love you no matter how many boys you kiss.”

  “I’m tired, Beatrice. Kissing and drinking and dancing haven’t done anything for me, and I’m fed up. Go away now, please. Find someone else to bully.”

  “Fine.” Beatrice pulled away. Over her shoulder she said, “For the record, I like you just as you are. I’d rather see you drunk or with a new boy every night than like this.”

  CHAPTER 30

  I DO LOVE NOTHING IN THE WORLD SO WELL AS YOU; IS NOT THAT STRANGE?

  Benedick dragged himself up to his room. He plugged the rickety sink in the corner and let the water run, taking solace in the idea of clean clothes, a fresh shave, a little something he had control over and could make better.

  Once dressed and no longer smelling of spent booze, he’d find Beatrice. Irritated, he thought, Why? Not only had she apparently decided to take priority in his mind over Prince, but now she’d also pushed out breakfast.

  Look here, he told himself, we’ve decided as a unified body not to be in love with her, so stop it. When he got downstairs, he heard a hammer pounding rhythmically outside. His first thought was Prince. But—

  Having hurried around the side of the house to the source of the sound, Benedick froze. Prince wasn’t there. Dogberry and Verges stood by Hey Nonny Nonny’s outside entrance. Dogberry finished nailing a notice sign to the wood-planked cellar door and stepped back.

  CLOSED

  FOR VIOLATION OF THE NATIONAL PROHIBITION

  BY ORDER OF THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT

  ALL PERSONS ARE FORBIDDEN TO ENTER THE PREMISES WITHOUT

  ORDERS FROM THE UNITED STATES MARSHAL.

  Benedick stared at it. There was a secured padlock around the doors. “Why?” he asked finally. “Why us?”

  Dogberry scoffed. “Why not you? You’re breaking the law same as anyone.”

  “It was a birthday party,” Benedick snapped.

  “Verges, how many speakeasies do you reckon are in New York City alone?” asked Dogberry.

  Verges stretched his bobbing neck. “Why, it’d have to be fifty thousand at the minimum. Probably closer to a hundred thousand, if you counted the smaller joints, too.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” said Dogberry. “So why would we spend our time bothering with a has-been speakeasy in Flower Hill that only opens by special invitation anyway?”

  “I guess if we got an offer we couldn’t refuse.”

  “I guess so.”

  Benedick didn’t want to understand what they were talking about, but it was hard not to. “I thought you didn’t take bribes,” he said.

  “We don’t take bribes to disobey the law,” Dogberry said, correcting him. The hints of intelligence that had crept up in small doses now fully dominated the agent’s face. Still, he seemed sorry, affected with the kindness he’d lauded earlier. “We don’t take bribes to turn the other way or hurt nobody, but we’ll take an extra nice paycheck to do what we’re sworn in to do either way. We had a client express interest in seeing one speakeasy in particular shut down and, well, who were we to turn down good work?”

  “My father,” Benedick said. It was just the sort of thing he would do, big balled and not t
o be outbid by a third party, even his own son. Benedick stepped forward, his feet heavy, and touched the freshly posted sign. Closed. This was his fault. He’d brought the agents right to Hey Nonny Nonny’s door.

  He considered all the questions he ought to ask, the indignation he had every right to feel, and instead he was simply tired. He felt pity, not for himself but for the entire world, the whole rotten state of human affairs. Why even try? “I thought—”

  “Now, don’t take it so hard, son,” said Dogberry, watching him. “We already knew there was a speakeasy here, and we would’ve pheasant hunted straight into winter until we had proof. If we didn’t get you last night, it would’ve been another night. Know what your pop said to us before we came? He said, ‘My son is no slouch. He’s smart as a devil. He’ll figure out you’re Prohibition agents, and then he’ll try to talk you into leaving, and he’s a really fine talker, so don’t fall for it.’”

  That his father thought he was anything other than a lazy, useless dreamer was surprising. The knowledge wormed its way into Benedick’s fury and made a mess of it, softening edges he wanted to stay pointed.

  “And you know, he was right,” said Dogberry.

  Benedick tried to put his anger on Claude but couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even fully blame Conrade. The bottom line had his own privileged, delusional signature all over it. He sighed. “What’s going to happen?”

  Dogberry handed him a folded receipt. “We got our proof last night,” he said. “But then with what happened with Miss Stahr and it being her birthday, well, we decided to wait. Still, the law’s the law.” From his other pocket, Dogberry retrieved a crisp court summons. “There’ll be jail or a hefty fine.”

  Leo was already on a downward slope; this would bury him. Hero would be left alone with no way to support herself. Prince could be anywhere. Even Beatrice, applying for college, would have this family shame hanging over her head.