by Joel Jenkins
“Hey, watch what you say about my weight, Mister!” she replied while likewise returning a shot.
“Your father didn’t deserve to run this city!” he decreed. “And neither does a whore like you! You think you can take over from him?”
“I don’t think that at all,” she said. “I know it, ’cause I owe my Papa. And I owe you somethin’ too.”
“Then let’s do this, bitch!” he shouted.
“Yes, let’s!” she concurred.
With that mutually decided, the two rushed out of their hiding places, going for broke as they charged each other with their guns drawn. Gia fired first, delivering a flesh wound to Vito’s left shoulder. Fueled by rage and adrenaline, he all but ignored the shot and returned fire, winging Gia in her right leg. A surge of will prevented her left leg from giving out, and she fired again. That one hit Vito in his left hip, but he still forced himself to stay on his feet. He returned fire, but his aim was off due to his injuries, and Gia only lost a nick of flesh on her left arm.
Realizing he had one bullet left, Vito knew he had to make it count. Summoning all of his will, he blocked out his injuries and aimed his gun. But Gia was by now upon him, and she kicked the piece from his grip before he could shoot.
“You always did have a big mouth,” she said just before forcefully shoving her gun into his gullet and pulling the trigger. The entire contents of his head were blown out the back of his skull, painting a canvas of gore on his cabin’s back wall.
Ira told Fido to go back downstairs and see if the rest of the yacht was secured by the Provenzo forces, while he would go and tend to Gia.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he ran up to her, concerned over her several bleeding wounds.
“Never better, sweetheart,” she replied as she admired her handiwork. “Papa is avenged. And this city now belongs to me.”
* * *
Several days later, Gia was lying on her bed dressed in her best silk nightgown, waiting for the arrival of Ira, whose visit was due. He was an hour late, and her concern was mounting when the familiar knock of Jennings on her door made her jump up in elation.
“So he’s finally here now, Jennings?” she asked hopefully.
“Actually, no, Miss Provenzo,” the dour butler answered through the door. “It was a delivery boy, who brought a letter from him.”
“At this hour? Slip it under the door, will ya?”
Jennings did as ordered, and Gia picked up the envelope and removed its contents. A simple, hand-written note informed her thusly:
Dear Gia,
Please forgive me, but I can’t do this. I’m a man of tradition, and being with a woman who is my boss, and who provides for me rather than the reverse, goes against all of that tradition. I feel like a kept man being with you, and the rest of your crew treats me accordingly. Because of this, I accepted a position with a different syndicate taking over in New Orleans, so I won’t step on the toes of your family’s business. Your father meant everything to me, and so did you. But it had to end when you took the top spot instead of letting Al have it. So after I helped you avenge your dad, I think my obligation to him was fulfilled. I’m sorry for not telling you face-to-face, but I think it’s better this way. Good luck with your new position, and thank you for being my lady. It was great while it lasted.
It ended with, “Love always, Ira.”
Gia crumpled the letter in her hand and tossed it across the room, before verbally venting, “You dirty bum! Ya didn’t tell me to my face ’cause ya knew I would kill your yellow kiester right there!”
As she listened to the somber lyrics of Ethel Waters’ “Stormy Weather” on her phonograph—Ira’s last gift to her—she walked to the window of her expensive manse and looked out over the evening spires of the city she now considered her own.
Yea, I have it all now, she thought to herself. Except what I wanted more than anything. And to think I always wondered what Papa meant when he told me about the ‘price’ that comes with success.
Gia Provenzo’s sobs vanished into the melancholy rhythms of Waters’ song.
TRAGIC LIKE A TORCH SONG
by
Shannon Muir
— :: —
“And welcome back to our stage the fabulous Hazel Atwood!”
Hazel heard the packed house clapping as she stepped out into the spotlight, as she did many a night these days. Hazel Atwood performed regularly at the Swan Song and every night the crowds responded. Therefore, at least according to the owner, there existed no plans to change the headline act until the crowds stopped dwindling and buying the booze. He knew they weren’t coming just for the drinks as those flowed freely everywhere once again in post Prohibition 1934.
“Evening everyone,” Hazel said to the crowd in a sweet, almost naïve sounding voice. The persona took her practice to cultivate, as her own real life had been the complete opposite. The stock market crashed in 1929, causing her single father to lose his job working the docks at a clothing factory. They’d moved in with her mother’s sister Luella Wall and her father became a private investigator, only to be gunned down while chasing some booze smugglers in 1931. Even three years later, it all still felt like yesterday to Hazel Atwood. Even though she came off sweet and innocent in her speech, the singing would always tell a different story.
“Tonight I’m going to start off with a new number,” she continued to explain. “It’s all about loss and love.”
Hazel possessed a good sense of how to make words flow but not so much of a gift of matching them to the musical notes. That’s where her regular piano player partner Martin James came in. He knew how to find just the right melody to make her words sing. Often, however, they’d go into these new tunes with little or no rehearsal, since Harold’s wife didn’t like him performing at the house and they couldn’t go to Hazel’s Aunt’s either. So Harold would try to guide and Hazel would need to feel her way, just like tonight.
After the lead in notes, Hazel felt confident she could follow along.
My heart it aches remembering you
And everything you used to do
But now you’ve left and gone away
Leaving me alone to stay
It’s all tragic like a torch song
Hazel looked out among the audience, made up entirely of men, who did appear to respond to her performance. Perhaps, however, they cared less for her singing and more for her young, shapely looks, but she tried not to focus on that.
Time has passed and still I know
My heart it cannot let you go
You still live on inside
And I have nowhere to hide
It’s all tragic like a torch song
Hazel noted someone at the front of the club watching her every move, an older man she’d never seen before. On the surface, he appeared to have only a friendly passing interest. She couldn’t help to keep paying attention to him, though. He seemed to be the only one solely interested in her, as unlike the others his drink stayed ignored on the table as the others drank throughout the set.
At the end of the set, Hazel thanked everyone as she always did. As she began to walk off, she heard a sound to which she wasn’t accustomed.
“Encore! Encore!” a male voice called out. From the sound, Hazel suspected it to be the man who watched her intently the whole night. Hazel started to head back out to oblige, but her manager Franklin Gorton grabbed her arm.
“You know we don’t do additional songs,” he reminded her. “We don’t get paid extra for doing anything like that, so why do more for the same amount of dough? Besides, I got to get my percent.”
“You always got to get your piece, Franklin,” she huffed at him.
The proprietor came by and gave them their night’s earnings in cash.
“You taking your part out of more than the dough?” joked the proprietor who handed the night’s cash take to the manager. The manager counted it out and then gave Hazel her part and pocketed his.
“Oh I wish,”
said Franklin. “The wife would have a fit if I got a little extra on the side. Not to mention the little broad’s Aunt would have my hide for it. Using that voice of hers to make a little extra now that her dear old Dad’s kicked the bucket and Mama died in childbirth. And the last thing I would need is to risk getting a little bastard of my own.”
“Well the two of you sure bicker like lovers sometimes. You got your money, now hit the road and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hazel and Franklin shared a cab to get back home, as Martin lived within walking distance of the club and the piano belonged to the Swan Song.
“Lovers, hah! The way he treated us sounded more like a love and hate relationship with us performing there,” noted Hazel.
“Maybe he was on to something though,” Franklin told her. “Cora and I, we’re not getting along as well these days. I know she’s seeing someone, and frankly I’ve wondered if maybe I should try and do the same thing too.”
“I am most definitely not interested,” Hazel said, crossing her arms.
“I didn’t mean you, kid. But I sure would like to know more about this person she’s seeing.”
“Maybe I could help. I mean, my Dad used to be a private investigator and all.”
Hazel could see that Franklin tried not to laugh.
“Come on, kid. What can you do?”
“Well, Cora knows me. And she wouldn’t expect me spying since you work with me all the time anyway. I could try getting closer to hear and see what I could learn.”
Hazel noted Franklin’s amused look. “And what would be in it for you?”
“While I’m on this gig, you let me keep the percent you normally pocket for me at the club.”
Franklin hesitated and thought it over.
“You don’t trust me?” Hazel asked.
“No,” he told her. “It’s just so crazy it might work.”
He dug into his pocket and pulled out that night’s bit of cash, which he handed to Hazel, as the cab pulled up to his brownstone home.
“Have to get creative telling the wife what happened to the dollars, but hopefully this won’t last long. I can’t give you more than two weeks.”
Hazel took the money from Franklin. “I’ll do my best,” she told him. “Good night.”
Franklin got out and the driver took her home.
At home, Aunt Luella Wall waited up as usual. Having taken responsibility for Hazel in some form since her birth, Luella worried about Hazel growing up right and not making the best choices. Hazel always saw Aunt Luella as overprotective.
“There you are coming home late again! And without that Franklin Gorton this time! How often have I insisted he bring you home first to make sure you always come home safe?”
“But in terms of distance it costs more to drop me off first and him second. Everyone needs money these days.”
“And you need to stay safe! I know you have that strong voice and you can sing, but what you do isn’t stable. I still think you should come work with me at the clothing store.”
“But I know nothing about that trade. Singing is my passion and what I’m best at.”
“Look at your father following his passion and where did it get him, Hazel? Be sensible.”
Hazel shouted back. “My father wanted to be in law enforcement as a child but ended up doing a dockworker’s job because it was all that he could get for a normal career in his life and position! After getting laid off, managing to be a private investigator was the closest he got to his dreams. And he was happier in that short time than I remember him the rest of his life!”
“I just want what’s best for you, Hazel.”
“Then leave me alone!”
Hazel ran to her room in tears, where she pulled a chest of her father’s old things out of the closet. Included inside were an old hat and trench coat that he had, one of a couple. He’d died in the other one. Hazel refused to part with these, and fortunately Aunt Luella remained just kind enough not to throw them away if for no other reason than to keep peace with the child.
Hazel gazed into the dirty, slightly cracked oval wall mirror mounted in her room. Her Aunt Luella constantly insisted that she be rid of the old thing, what with its tarnished frame and the crack in the upper corner. Yet the mirror belonged to Hazel’s mother before the young girl had been born, and her father put it in Hazel’s room after his wife died. This treasured mirror remained the only link Hazel had to the mother she’d never known. Still, despite the connection to her sibling, Luella did not want the item.
“It does you no good to cling to the past, child,” Aunt Luella often insisted. “You need to be living for the future.” Yet she didn’t quite dare take the mirror or the father’s things from the young girl.
Hazel looked into the reflective surface and saw a face far more resembling her father’s than any description given to her of the woman that gave birth to her, yet with a softer and more rounded feel. Most people said they saw her father looking in her vast, gentle eyes. Every now and then Hazel wondered if her father’s downfall came simply because at the heart of it all, the center of the gumshoe squished with a heart of love. His big brawn, built up by the years of factory work before his layoff, only served as an exterior for a giant heart, one Hazel missed quite often.
Hazel thought about a time not all that long ago when she’d gotten into one of her father’s hat and trench coats without asking. He’d found her in his bedroom playing detective and demanded she return both items to him.
“Taking something without asking is just like stealing,” he reminded Hazel. “Detectives don’t steal. They find the bad men that did the stealing. Now take those off and put them on the bed right now, young lady.”
With a sigh, Hazel did exactly as she’d been asked, but not without a little complaining.
“But Daddy,” she pleaded to him. “I want to beat the bad guys just like you.”
Hazel’s father knelt down slightly because even with Hazel as a growing teen he stood head and shoulders above her. He never liked towering over anyone and wanted to come to her level.
“Now listen, Hazel,” she remembered him telling her ever so softly. “You have a great life ahead of you, Princess. A beautiful life. I’ve heard that voice of yours when you sing in school. Oh, it’ll take you places, wait and see. Meanwhile Daddy’s going to do everything in his power to protect you so all those dreams can happen.”
“But who’s going to protect you?” Hazel insisted. “I’m old enough, I can do it.”
“It’s a parent’s job to protect a child, Princess. You have enough to worry about.”
Hazel hugged her father. “But I love you, Daddy. I’m always afraid you won’t come back.”
Hazel’s father held her in a big bear hug and stroked her hair. “Yes, sweetie I know. But you’ve got Aunt Luella looking out for you. She’ll teach you all the things you need to know to become a great and beautiful woman that I can’t. Your mama would be proud of you, Princess, for being so strong.”
Hazel’s father released his bear hug, and then grabbed his hat and trench coat.
“Now I have somewhere I have to be, it’s very important I don’t be late. Take care of yourself and your Aunt, Princess.”
Looking back on that fateful day, Hazel started to wonder if her father knew he’d never be coming back from his rendezvous. His last words were to take care of Aunt Luella, not that he’d be seeing her later as he always said before, a discrepancy which haunted her to this day. The emphasis also proved unusual in that her father generally did not speak of and felt distant from Aunt Luella, and saw having to move in with her rent-free in what used to be his father-in-law’s house as a necessity of the times. Before the layoffs, the two of them lived alone and her father just dropped Hazel over to be watched when he worked the factory night shift; the opinions he expressed of the Aunt back them didn’t serve to be very flattering.
Hazel realized that a new mystery revealed itself. She now wanted to be certain whether or not her
father left knowing that he would die that night. Also, perhaps there might be details about that night Aunt Luella knew but hid to protect her. Yet an opportunity might never come to solve that.
The next morning, Hazel saw her Aunt Luella off to work as usual. Not typical of her times, Luella ran the clothing store once operated by her father before his death. Hazel deduced that if the line of work wasn’t something such as clothing, which often could be perceived as women’s work, her Aunt would have been far less tolerated in a position of management. That said, many pressured Luella to hire a male manager to work for her. Luella countered, quite accurately, that she’d worked part-time alongside her father for years and knew the customers and their needs better than any outside management ever could. Additionally, she’d made a bit of a mark as a local designer as well when some of their domestic clothing resources for the shop turned to military focused production during the War. Luella’s reputation kept the shop alive and in turn provided much needed income for Luella to raise Hazel.
After her Aunt left for the day, Hazel grabbed a cab and headed back to her manager’s. After the introspection of the prior night, she now knew she couldn’t finish the job he’d asked of her. In all fairness, Hazel knew she needed to return his money, but hadn’t quite figured out how to couch it, so she’d opted for just putting the money in his mail slot with a vague note.
However, Hazel never saw that plan through.
“Hey lady, looks like there’s something going on at that address you asked for,” the cabbie pointed out as they approached the home of the manager. Police could be seen outside, and out on the step an officer spoke to a woman that Hazel vaguely recognized as Cora Gorton. They’d met a small handful of times in passing at various social occasions, but never really talked much before.
“I’ll still get out here,” Hazel said.
“If you say so,” the driver said. “But you might have trouble getting a ride home.”
Hazel paid the driver, got out, and headed over to the brownstone. A cop spotted her.