by Jenn Bennett
Not missing a beat, Astrid smiled and smoothly said, “You can put that on my charge account.”
TWENTY
They knew Babel’s Tower was open the following night when they saw the cars lining the street and golden lights twinkling from a two-story brick building. Astrid didn’t think it was the kind of club that had a coat check, so she stashed her fur in Bo’s trunk and hopped over the curb. Despite threatening clouds and gray skies, it hadn’t rained all day, so even though water still ran through the streets, the sidewalks were fairly dry.
She didn’t know what to expect to find in the club tonight. Mission or no mission, she chose to think of this as a rare night out with Bo, and had dressed accordingly in a two-piece amethyst tunic dress with chalk white beads and a scalloped hem. The dropped waist covered up hips that were a touch too full, and the latticework design of the beading plumped up a bust that was a touch too meager. A silver clip held back the waves of her blond hair on one side and matched Bo’s watch on her wrist.
He eyed her with open interest and settled a warm hand on her lower back as they fell into step on the sidewalk.
“It’s like we’re on an actual date,” she said, unable to stop herself from smiling. On the way here, he’d pulled the car over a block away from home and kissed her thoroughly. Her lips still felt swollen, and the warmth that had spread through her center hadn’t subsided. Looking at his handsome face with all its sharp lines made her feel a little buzzed. He was a thousand times better than champagne.
“Here? This is the last place I’d take you,” he said, humor lurking in the corners of his eyes. “We’d go somewhere swank, like out to the theater to see a play or a concert.”
“I’d settle for a picture show.”
“Never settle,” he said, and his merry mood turned sober.
“Don’t plan to.” She put her hand behind her back and pulled his arm to her side. Threaded her fingers through his. “I know exactly what I want, and I aim to get it, no matter the cost.”
He squeezed her hand tightly and sighed. “Have I told you lately how much I enjoy your company, Miss Magnusson?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Remind me to do just that if we make it out of this dump alive.”
It was easy enough to get inside the club. The thug who guarded the door was ten steps down from the tuxedoed bouncers at Gris-Gris and couldn’t have cared less who they were, as long as Bo was putting money in his open palm. And it didn’t get much better inside.
“Hell” was an appropriate name, Astrid decided, when she scanned the packed main floor. It was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. The floor was sticky and covered with peanut shells. And though they had a stage, the jazz band playing on it was less than spectacular. Only a few couples bothered to dance. Everyone else seemed to be more interested in hiding in the shadows—and there were plenty of those.
Bo ordered them sidecars from the bar, and they found an empty table with a good vantage point. Astrid flicked peanut shells off the table and stealthily wiped down the rims of their glasses while Bo surveyed their surroundings.
“Don’t drink it,” he told her as he looked around the room. “From the smell of it, it’s probably bathtub hooch. And from the looks of the regulars around here, it might kill a few brain cells.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. She trusted Bo’s nose when it came to booze, and he was right about the regulars, if that’s who these people were. Most of them were men, and though no one gave Bo a second glance, several people were eyeing Astrid in a hungry sort of way, and it made her feel uncomfortable.
“I don’t see any dance hall girls or burlesque booths,” she said. “Maybe things have changed since Mr. Haig was here. Maybe the secret society shut down while the yacht was missing this year.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Don’t be obvious, but take a look at the door in the corner by the billiards tables. Two bouncers there, but only one at the door outside? That seems strange. Also sounds like there’s different music coming from back there.”
He was right. Two men making their way to the inner door stopped, paid one of the bouncers, and received tickets in return. That’s where they needed to be.
Bo agreed. They slowly made their way to the inner door.
“How much?” Bo asked.
One of the bouncers looked him over. “Ten cents a ticket. One ticket to dance. Five for the private burlesque shows. That’s five apiece if she wants to watch, too,” he said, nodding toward Astrid.
Bo handed him a bill. “We’ll take ten tickets.”
The bouncer gave Astrid a knowing look that made her feel positively dirty. It was all she could do to smile and not shout out, It’s not what you think!
“By the way, any idea if Mad Hammett is in tonight?” Bo asked as the man pocketed his money and counted off ten paper tickets from a roll around his wrist.
“You and the dame lookin’ to get upstairs, eh?”
“Maybe.”
“Ask Henry at the carousel.” He handed Bo a string of red tickets and gave Astrid a slow smile. “Enjoy yourselves.”
Not likely. Astrid hurried through the open door with Bo and was glad to hear it shut behind them. But not for long. The backside of Hell was just as crowded as the front. Men, and a few women, sat at tables along the front wall, waiting their turn with the “taxi dancers.” Most of the dancing girls seemed bored, and some of the men were holding them a lot closer than any dancing Astrid had ever seen. A few even seemed to be giving out more than dances.
But that was no concern of Astrid’s. Bo grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the center of the dance floor, where a large circular hut was covered in carnival lights and paintings of frolicking nude angels. A velvet rope and another bouncer stood watch over the door here.
“You Henry?” Bo asked, holding out their tickets.
“Maybe.”
Bo added a dollar bill to the tickets. “Fellow out front said you were the guy to ask if we wanted to see Mad Hammett.”
He looked at Astrid and took Bo’s money. “Yeah, all right. Booth four.”
“No need. We just want to talk to Hammett,” Bo said.
“You want to talk, you go into the booth. If Hammett likes the look of ya, he’ll stop by.”
“But—”
“Not my rules, buddy. But I can tell you this much. If you’re gun-shy about this in here,” he said, nodding his head toward the carousel, “you ain’t gonna last five minutes upstairs.”
Was this some sort of test to weed out the weak of stomach? Two more men were approaching the carousel, and Henry already had his eye on them, ready to hand Bo’s tickets and money back. He plainly didn’t care whether they went in or not.
“Let’s go inside,” Astrid told Bo in a loud voice, putting on a good show of enthusiasm for Henry and hoping she sounded braver than she felt. “It’ll be fun.”
Bo lifted a brow and hesitated briefly. “You heard the lady. Guess that means we’ll be taking booth four.”
Henry shrugged and pocketed the cash. “To the right. No touching the dancer.”
No touching? Was this a common problem? Astrid’s palms suddenly felt overwarm.
“What about Mad Hammett?” Bo asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell him. Whether he wants to talk to you is his business.” Henry opened the velvet stanchion and allowed them to go through. They passed under the carnival lights and into a cramped circular passageway that bounded around the edge of the structure like thread on a spool. Tattered curtains were pulled shut over arched doorways on the inner wall, and each one had a number scrawled above it in peeling paint. Astrid spied light through the edges of the curtains and heard music and laughter, but they ran into no one until they found the doorway marked 4.
Bo lowered his head and spoke into her ear. “We don’t have to do thi
s.”
“And quit now? Absolutely not. How bad could it be?”
“Anywhere from uncomfortable to downright horrifying,” he said, looking anxious about the prospect of either as he pushed back the half-open curtain.
Her stomach twisted anxiously.
Inside was a cramped space with two squat stools and a low bar counter. The counter looked out over a narrow stage whose view was blocked by another curtain. It smelled like bleach, which was good and bad. Good, because someone had recently cleaned the floor and counter. Bad, because it needed to be cleaned. Astrid certainly wasn’t eager to sit on the stool.
“Forget the dancer. Don’t touch anything,” Bo warned.
That didn’t make her feel any better.
Holding her hand, he perched on a stool and urged her to sit sideways across his lap. “There,” he said, tucking her closer, arms encircling her waist and back as she slung her own arm around his shoulder. “How’s that?”
“Better,” she said as her misgivings subsided considerably. It felt decadent to be held by him, despite their seedy surroundings. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek . . . and when he moved, that breath tickled the flyaway curls that had escaped the silver hair clip over her ear. This sent a shower of chills down her neck. “See, this isn’t so bad,” she said, speaking as much to herself as to him. “Rather exciting, I’d even say, in a dangerous sort of way.”
“Everything involving you is.”
She relaxed a little more and glanced at the closed curtain. “That man said Mad Hammett would stop by if he likes the looks of us,” she whispered. “But how does he get a look at us? Is he behind the curtain?”
“Was wondering that myself. Maybe—”
Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the movement in front of them. The curtain was opening. Music flooded the small room as a single bright bulb came to life over the tiny stage. Not more than three feet away from them, a pale woman with long brown hair smiled down at them. Her scuffed black T-strap heels were level with the counter, and her dark stockings bore a long run down one knee. In lieu of clothes, she wore five playing cards—one over each breast and three fanned out below her belly button.
The dancer didn’t seem put off by Astrid’s presence, and after a brief moment of discomfort, Astrid decided she wasn’t all that put off by the dancer, either. She’d seen worse things in that hidden collection of pornographic postcards her brother Winter kept in his study—one he didn’t think anyone knew about, but, in fact, everyone did. Probably even Greta. The dancer in front of her, who was now halfheartedly swaying to the music, was nude, yes, but she wasn’t particularly becoming. Never one to be falsely modest, Astrid felt her own body to be quite superior, which made her feel a little better about Bo looking.
That is, until the woman removed the card over her right breast to reveal one nipple with a large brown areola. The dancer flung the card over her shoulder and winked at Astrid.
Astrid wanted to laugh. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was even a little fun. The way Bo was muttering under his breath made it clear that he was uncomfortable and regretting having agreed to all this, and Astrid rather enjoyed that.
“What do you think?” she whispered near his ear, nudging the brim of his hat up with her nose.
“I think there’s no way in hell I’m answering that question.”
“Boo, hiss,” she complained.
He chuckled a little and tightened his grip around her waist. “I think I’d much rather see you on that stage.”
“Much better,” she said, smiling against his ear. She thought of what he’d done to her own ear in the car that night in Chinatown, and on an impulse, took a little swipe around his earlobe.
He sucked in air.
She did it again.
The dancer removed the card over her other breast.
How in the world did she get them to stick to her skin? Maybe it was best not to know. Astrid placed several soft kisses around the edge of Bo’s ear and felt him growing hard against her thigh. She felt the corresponding pleasurable sensation burgeoning between her own legs, and when she pulled back slightly to find his eyes closed, not even watching the dancer, her corresponding sensation became a warm flood.
The arm circling her waist dropped. Bo’s hand slid beneath her dress’s tunic, fingers moving up her ribs. Slowly, his palm rounded the curve of her breast and molded it through the delicate silk of her chemise. A thumb stroked one tight nipple, causing a cascade of delightful shocks to shoot down her center. She gasped.
The dancer was right there, and Astrid didn’t know if the woman could see Bo’s roaming hand, but just wondering if she could had Astrid caught between panic and thrill. It made her face warm and her breath come faster.
Only three cards left, and as the dancer moved, they barely covered the woman’s dark curls. She made a teasing gesture to remove the cards. Once, twice. Bo was paying attention now, Astrid noticed. It was hard to blame him. Much like seeing a fistfight or an automobile accident, it was difficult to look away. And after another feint toward the cards, the dancer spun around, bent over at the waist, and smiled at them through her spread legs.
There it was, everything, right on display.
The first thing Astrid thought was: Lord, that’s an awful lot of hair. The second thing she thought was: I hope I look a lot better down there than that. I’m bending over in front of a mirror to check when I get home, just to be sure. And the third thing was: She’d better flip back over soon or all the blood’s going to rush to her head.
“Stars,” Astrid murmured, unable to stop blinking. Unable to look away. When the woman wiggled her backside, it was just too much. Astrid clamped a hand over Bo’s eyes.
Laughter rumbled through his chest and under her hand—under his hand, too, which was still holding her breast. She laughed with him, brimming with an odd medley of joy and arousal and sheepishness. Then she gave the dancer an apologetic look, hoping the woman didn’t think they were laughing at her. But the woman didn’t seem to mind, and since the blood had rushed to her head, her face was redder than Astrid’s burning cheeks when she finally stood upright, turned around, and gave a little bow.
Astrid released Bo’s eyes and applauded enthusiastically, still laughing a little. Bo’s hand slipped out from her tunic to pull out a bill from his pocket. He gave it to Astrid, who passed it up to the dancer. She accepted it with grace and blew them both a kiss before tottering backward as the curtain drew closed.
“My, that was . . . interesting,” Astrid said, still mildly embarrassed but unable to stop smiling.
“Not half as interesting as you. Aiya, Astrid. You amaze me.”
“I do?”
“Every day.” His hand ghosted over her stockinged knee and softly squeezed the inside of her thigh. Oh, that was nice. Very nice, indeed. Her blood was hot and she wanted him to squeeze a little more. Everywhere. But when she shifted in his lap to give him better access, his head tilted toward a beam of unexpected light. All his muscles stilled at once.
His hand slipped out of her dress as she turned around to see what had startled him.
“Don’t stop on my account,” a lilted voice said.
The curtain was open, and a middle-aged man in a suit the color of a fresh bruise leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms over a broad chest. If his face was a wall, his dark handlebar mustache was an overgrown hedge sitting in front of it. The growth was so thick, when he gave them a slow smile, it barely moved.
“Enjoyed Bebe’s performance, did ya?” he said. Mr. Haig told them at the radio station that the person they’d be looking for was Cornish, and from the sound of this man’s accent, he fit the bill.
“Mad Hammett?” Bo asked as he rotated Astrid along with him on the stool.
“In the flesh.” The man’s dark eyes roamed over Astrid’s legs. She pulled d
own her dress and started to stand up from Bo’s lap, but his arm locked around her middle like a steel bar. Whether it was due to possessiveness on his part or instinct about Hammett, Bo certainly didn’t want her to move, and that made her nervous. It only got worse when her head began to clear and realization hit: This man could be one of them. Like Max.
“We were interested in getting up to Heaven,” Bo said.
“Henry told me. And I liked your show almost as much as Bebe’s,” he said, jerking his chin upward. Astrid followed with her eyes and spotted a dark circle on the ceiling of the booth. A hole. He’d been watching them from above. Astrid didn’t like that. At all. “So I thought I’d pop down and introduce myself.”
Astrid stared at his extended hand for a beat too long and finally gave hers. “Mary, uh, Johnson,” she said.
Hammett bent low and kissed her hand. The stiff hairs of his mustache made her skin crawl, and she held her breath, terrified of having another vision of drowning bodies. But he wore no ring, and though she didn’t want him touching her, nothing supernatural occurred. “Delighted, miss. I quite liked seein’ ya laugh. We need more of that around here. How old are ya? Eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Thereabouts,” she said, trying to act casual as she gently pulled her hand from his grip.
“And who is the lucky chap gettin’ all your affection?”
“Charlie Han,” she said, inventing a name for him as fast as she could.
Hammett eyed him with almost as much interest as he had with Astrid. “Young and handsome. You speak well. They’d like that. But I’d feel wrong if I didn’t admit that they got a fondness for Nordic blood in Heaven. No offense.”
“None taken,” Bo said in a low voice, but Astrid knew damn well that was a lie, even if she hadn’t felt his legs turn to marble beneath hers and the menacing vibration running along his bones like electricity through wire. She silently told herself to keep her eyes down and not give her own aggrieved feelings away, praying Hammett didn’t notice. And he didn’t.