Sirens

by Janet Fox

  A speakeasy.

  “All alone, I’m so all alone

  There is no one else but you….”

  “Come on, girls.” Louie led the way to a far corner booth, already occupied. Three men in tuxedo jackets slouched in the booth, all of them smiling, teeth gleaming in the semidark.

  Louie slid into the seat next to one man, who drew his arm over her shoulder and gave her a kiss, right on the lips.

  Daniel Connor. He looked up at me, those gray eyes sharp as steel daggers. “Miss Winter. Such a pleasure to see you again.” His black hair was slicked off his forehead with brilliantine. Louie stiffened as he spoke, watching me.

  What would Pops say now, if he knew I was here, with this man—the very man he’d sent me to New York to avoid, and who had already found me, twice now? I could be stepping into a trap, or I could be helping Pops. Should I tell Danny Connor that it was all a lie—that Teddy wasn’t dead, that Teddy and I, we’d faked his death a year ago? I twisted my fingers into the fur around my neck.

  Uncertain of the right move, I felt uneasy and alone.

  Connor’s steel eyes fixed on mine, and again I felt that lurch inside me, as if he reeled me in on a tight wire, as a slow smile crept across his face, a smile Lou couldn’t see because she was watching me.

  Melody slid right into the booth next to the other men and promptly crooked her finger at one of the serving girls, who brought her ice in a glass and a bottle filled with brown liquid.

  I fidgeted with my wrap, standing by the table, the eyes of the men on me, their too-broad smiles, feeling the weight of the room and the people all around me and their moody desires snaking through the chair legs and table legs and roping around me in invisible coils, drifting up my torso like the smoke.

  Louie said to me, “Honey, you can’t stand there all night. Besides,” she leaned around me to glance at the stage, “you’re blocking the view.” She waved her hand.

  I turned to see. And there he was, Charlie O’Keefe, playing a horn with those dark eyes of his closed, his broad shoulders straining with his effort to make the music, and make it he did. He pitched that horn high and low; he turned to face the other musicians and then back again to the crowd; he matched the crooner and her full-bodied voice. I stood mesmerized until the song ended and the crowd burst with applause.

  Then I ducked my head and plunked down on the nearest chair, because I didn’t want Charlie O’Keefe to see me in the midst of this fast crowd. I wanted him to think of me as the nice girl he’d met in the park who didn’t go to speakeasies.

  “Good girl, cuz,” said Melody. “Now all you need is a little ammunition.” She slid a glass across the table at me. I stared at it.

  “Danny, you weren’t just flapping your gums,” said one of the men, who sat to my left. He had a nose like a badger, long and sharp. “She’s a sweetheart. A real looker.”

  “Quit it, Neil,” Connor said, his voice a low growl.

  That was when I realized that badger-nosed Neil was referring to me. His grin had broadened, appearing carnivorous. I looked him square in the eye. “I’m right here. You can speak directly to me.”

  “And she’s got spark!”

  I sensed, rather than saw, Connor’s surprise. It didn’t matter; I could stand up for myself. I went on. “If you want to speak to me, speak. Because I can spark that silly grin right off your face.” My own face flushed with the heat of my emotion, and I moved my eyes away and stared down at the white tablecloth.

  Louie leaned toward me over the table and said, her lips against my ear, “Sister, you have just become my personal hero. I’ve never liked that guy.”

  But the two men laughed as if I was the funniest thing they’d seen and heard in a long time. “Sweetheart,” said the one called Neil, “you could be the next It Girl. The future Clara Bow. You’ve got the looks, and you’ve got the spunk. You could be a star.”

  It was the second time in an hour that I’d been told I could be the next someone else. Except that what I wanted was to be the next me, Jo Winter. If only I could figure out who I was.

  And then Charlie O’Keefe was there, standing at the table, standing right by my side.

  “Hey, Charlie!” Louie tapped Charlie’s arm, and then my earlier suspicions were confirmed. O’Keefe: they were sister and brother.

  “Hiya, sis. Hello, Mr. Connor.” Charlie nodded, deferential.

  I wasn’t supposed to know Charlie, and I hoped he played the game, too. Because now I was convinced I was right on another score: Danny Connor had hired him to follow me.

  Introductions were made all around, and I discovered that the other man’s name was Ryan. When Charlie and I shook hands, I said, pretending, “You play the saxophone quite well.”

  “Why, thank you, miss,” he said. His eyes had the glint of mischief. “But it ain’t a sax. It’s a cornet. Kind of like a trumpet.” He winked. So I could keep a secret, but he struggled with the concept. It shouldn’t have surprised me. “How are you enjoying the place here?”

  I pulled my wrap tight around my shoulders; I hadn’t been willing to give it up. It was as if I hadn’t committed to staying. “It’s fine. Nice.”

  “Well, we’ll try to give you something real nice to remember it by,” he said with a grin.

  I liked Charlie, even if he did work for Connor. He was sweet and innocent. I bet he had no clue why Connor wanted me followed. I wished, in that instant, I could jump into Charlie’s arms, safe and secure from this menacing man sitting opposite me, one arm trailing over Lou’s shoulder, but whose eyes were fixed on me. I wished I could run right out the door with Charlie, run away and never look back. Except I would look back. Those gray eyes of Connor’s were like big steel traps, and he was not about to let me go.

  Charlie was a sweet guy. Danny Connor, he was…something else again.

  “There is no one else but you….”

  Louie slid from the booth. “Charlie. Come with me. I gotta talk to you about something.” She turned to Connor. “Be right back, honey.” Then she glanced from Connor to me as she grabbed Charlie’s arm and dragged him away.

  “So long!” Charlie called over his shoulder.

  Melody was deep in conversation with Ryan and Neil, flirting, giggling, touching. The men were mesmerized. She tossed her head and dropped her eyes and pouted her lips, and left them no doubt as to her intentions. I couldn’t watch. I stared at my still-untouched drink, at the table, at my fingernails, at anything except Melody—and the only other man at the table, whose steel eyes were now fixed on me, boring holes right through me.

  Glasses clinked with ice; smoke drifted overhead; chatter and laughter filled every corner. I wouldn’t meet his eyes, because I feared what I’d see there. I feared him, and what he wanted from me, because I wasn’t about to give him Teddy, even if it would help save Pops. Even if he offered me all my dreams on a silver plate.

  The ice in the glass in front of me slipped and melted, sending waves of water through the alcohol. I wouldn’t look, no, not into those mesmerizing eyes.

  “Miss Winter, it is truly a pleasure,” he repeated, and I couldn’t help it.

  I looked.

  CHAPTER 19

  Lou

  I hated Danny when he started eyeballing her. I hated her, too, but I can be forgiven for that because I didn’t know what was really going on. I guess I didn’t have any of my tingly feelings at the time because I was too busy having other ones.

  Like a movie star already, that’s what she looked like. And I was sure I knew how she felt. I’m not an idiot. And gosh, I could hardly blame her.

  I pulled Charlie aside to talk to him about his rent money, to make sure he had enough and all, but I was stuck on what was happening back at the table. “You see that girl? That Jo Winter?”

  He grinned. “You bet I did. She’s the bee’s knees.”

  “Yeah? Well, she better keep her mitts off Danny.”

  Charlie looked like he’d swallowed something big. “Why would s
he be interested in Danny?”

  “Look at him.”

  Charlie looked. He nodded, real slow. “She’s real pretty.”

  I stuck my elbow into his ribs so hard he wheezed. “Not her. Him.”

  It took him a second. “Lou, I know he’s a charmer. Everyone knows that. Gosh, I’ve been trying to be like Danny Connor since I was fourteen years old.”

  That shook me. “You don’t want to be like Danny. You don’t.” I looked back at the table and found my eyes stinging. “You think she’s pretty enough to steal him?”

  Charlie put his arm around my shoulder. “Sis, I think you are too pretty and wonderful to even worry about stuff like that.”

  Charlie’s a saint, I’ll give him that. But me?

  I was ready to kill someone when I thought something started happening between Jo and Danny. I wanted to find a way to make him suffer. Or make her suffer. Sure, why not? I thought about that. Thinking, Detective, is not a crime.

  But one thing for sure: I’m no saint. And no, that is not a confession.

  CHAPTER 20

  MAY 22, 1925

  I lean to the belief that these [psychic] effects are produced by an intelligent force, which can manifest itself mentally and physically to some people under certain circumstances…. I do believe in spiritualism.

  —Letter from Howard Thurston to Harry Houdini, 1922

  Jo

  Daniel Connor leaned toward me. “Neil may be brash, but he is correct in his assessment.” He took a sip of his drink, moistening his lips with his tongue. “That’s a most attractive new look, which I neglected to remark on this morning. Your new hairstyle is quite becoming.”

  I had a hard time breathing. And it was impossible for me to look away. Daniel Connor’s steel eyes had hooked me again.

  “You know, Josephine, I was a friend to your brother. To Teddy.”

  I stopped breathing altogether. “You? A friend?” Connor had come to the memorial, but I’d thought that was because he and Pops were in business together. First Rushton, now Connor. It seemed that Teddy had a number of surprising friends.

  “I believe he would be happy if he could see us, right now.” Our eyes were locked; I couldn’t look away. “Perhaps he can. What do you think, Miss Winter?”

  “I…”

  “As I said earlier, I believe he is still with us in the flesh. I don’t believe in the spirit world, myself.” He smiled. “But then, Teddy was exceptional in so many ways.” He leaned back again, then pulled out a cigarette case, opened it, and extended it toward me. I shook my head. He took a rolled cigarette from the case and lit it with his lighter, turning his head, exhaling. “I’d like you to come see my greenhouse out on Long Island, Miss Winter.”

  “Your greenhouse?”

  “Yes. Not at the moment, of course.” He laughed, a smooth and satiny laugh that matched his slick hair. “Sometime soon.”

  I had to speak, because it was the only thing that afforded me a breath. “What do you grow?”

  “Orchids,” he said, and smoothed the napkin on the table between us, a delicate gesture.

  “Orchids.” I hesitated. “I know what they are, of course. But I’ve never seen one other than in a corsage.”

  “We will remedy that.” He watched me with narrowed eyes. “I have a passion for them—their smell, their form. Orchids are difficult to grow. Tricky. They must be kept at the perfect temperature, perfect humidity. They won’t bloom under any but the most auspicious conditions.” Connor leaned across the table toward me again, and his eyes shone in the reflected light from the stage, from the candles. “I’m fascinated by puzzles. By things that are tricky to handle. Orchids are puzzles, and must be treated with a delicate hand.” He paused again. “You are a puzzle, Miss Winter.”

  I froze, my fingers curved onto the table, fingernails resting, ready. “Really.”

  “You like books. You like intellectual endeavors. You like solitude.” He paused. “I believe you like mysteries, as well.”

  How did he know so much about me?

  “Ah, mysteries,” he went on, gazing toward the stage, where the musicians were gathering again. He stretched out his hand, taking in the room. “But you don’t care for this, this kind of a place. Do you, Miss Winter?”

  I held still.

  “You don’t like all this, and yet”—he leaned closer to me, across the table, his arms resting between us—“you are not your brother, are you? You are not perfect Theodore Winter. If, that is, Theodore Winter was—is—actually perfect, which I believe is debatable. You have some quirks of your own. As I said, you are a puzzle.”

  Connor was close enough to me now that I caught the brilliantine shine on his hair, smelled his expensive cologne. “Remember what I said this morning. I’m looking for Teddy, or for something he might have left. It’s most important to me. I can make all your dreams come true, Miss Winter. And help your family in the bargain. Or rather, keep your family from harm. All you need to do is say the word.” His lips curled up in a smile that showed his teeth. “Two weeks, Josephine. You have two weeks.”

  “Hey.” It was Louie. She looked from me to Connor, and for the second time since meeting her, I sensed her vulnerability. She sat down next to Connor as he made room for her. But her eyes were on me, accusing.

  He offered Louie a cigarette, and when he lit it, the lighter flashed. I jumped, and Lou saw my reaction.

  “Don’t like fire?” she asked, inhaling, the tip of her cigarette a red dot.

  “I don’t care for smoke,” I lied. My back burned, and the scar chafed.

  From the darkness behind me a man grabbed my shoulder, and I jumped again. “Wanna dance, sweetie?”

  Connor bristled.

  I shook my head. “No. Thanks anyway.”

  “Aw, come on, honey. Just one!”

  In one swift and leonine movement Connor was out of his seat and had dragged the man to the other side of the room, placing him in the clutches of the doorkeep; Connor returned before I could blink.

  “My apologies,” Connor said, adjusting his jacket and tie.

  “Thanks.” I sat back in the chair, flattened.

  “Well,” said Louie. Her eyes looked bruised now as she watched me. “How noble of you, hon.”

  I breathed hard; I stood. I wanted out of there. I had to get away from him, from her. I felt as though I was sinking into a pit. I abandoned my promise to my aunt; Melody, drowning in the liquor and the men, was on her own. I’d lost all curiosity about speakeasies.

  Without another word I turned and marched across the room, now throbbing with the beat of a new tune, Charlie’s cornet gracing the high notes and keeping synchrony with the singer. Then I pushed past the beefy doorkeep and shoved into the gloomy, dank hallway and straight on out into the night.

  The street was black as pitch as my eyes tried to adjust.

  I feared that he—Daniel Connor—would follow me. I had the feeling that, in the same swift and leonine fashion he had dealt with the stranger in the speakeasy, he would follow me, his prey, out into the dark.

  I pulled the caplet tighter around my shoulders and looked up the street. There. At the far end, close to the avenue with its noise and lights, I saw our limo waiting. I started down the sidewalk, the click, click of my heels on concrete the only sound.

  But then I heard another, a different sound. Footsteps, heavy, behind me. Connor? I stepped a little faster, my heart keeping time, and clutched my arms tight around my chest. The sound behind me drew closer, the footsteps faster.

  The limo was far down the street; it seemed a million miles away, and I walked as fast as I could walk without running, hearing the footsteps behind me, gaining.

  I broke into a trot.

  I reached the limo, found it locked, pounded on the window, praying that Sam hadn’t gone off to his own joint; but he was sleeping at the wheel, and I saw his wide eyes as he started and turned toward me, just as a hand grabbed my arm.

  I yelled, surprise and fear mi
ngled.

  And then came chaos. Sirens blared, and police cars, paddy wagons—a whole string of them—roared from around the corner. As the lights swept over the limo and me, the hand that gripped my arm let go. I turned to see the back of a man sprinting into the darkness away from me, while the noise of the raid—the shouts and slamming doors—swelled around me. I looked at the brownstone, and it was as if rats were abandoning a sinking ship. People poured from windows and doors, running in all directions away from the speakeasy while the police shouted orders and grabbed whoever came within reach, which really meant whoever was drunk enough to stagger within reach.

  Sam came around the car. “Get in, miss. Now.”

  I sat in the car and stared out the window. The hand on my arm hadn’t been Daniel Connor’s. I knew that grip.

  It had been Teddy, I was certain. Like Connor, I didn’t believe in spirits, either. I believed in Teddy.

  I huddled, shaking all over, in the backseat while Sam waited with the engine running. The door popped open and Melody and Louie tumbled in, laughing hysterically, followed by Daniel Connor, silent and slick.

  Connor rapped on the inside window of the limo. “Not too fast, Sam. We don’t want to draw attention.”

  We pulled away from the curb, slow, and I looked out the back, at the street teeming with drunken people, police, lights fanning the building, and I let myself shake, now, still feeling the grip of a hand on my arm.

  “Such a shame,” Melody said with a pout. “That was a swell joint.”

  I remembered the fire, the flames reaching for me and me helpless to stop them, my voice choked with smoke as I tried to scream but could not. It had been Teddy, Teddy’s hand on my arm that had pulled me to safety from the flames that afternoon. He’d rescued me, had been my hero.