Moonshine: A Novel

by Alaya Johnson

  "You want anything else, miss?" asked the waitress, halfway between titillated and appalled.

  I shook my head and wiped my suddenly wet eyes. "No," I said. Nothing you can give me.

  Three hours later I left Chrystie Elementary, aching and wondering how I was going to get through a high society party with Lily. I had a sudden flash of Eliza at the Duchess's ball: "How kind of you to let me come." Well, apparently the first order of business would be to keep my Montanan mouth well shut. Or filled with food.

  "Miss Hollis?" I recognized the voice, but my exhausted brain took a moment to connect it with a name and a face. When it did, I was surprised. Giuseppe had been forceful, almost menacing, the last few times I'd run into him. Now he looked parchment-pale and contrite, under the flickering light from an electric street lamp.

  "What is it?" I said, warily. He really did look terrible, but I was mindful of his strange appearance in my class yesterday. Perhaps he'd just been concerned for my safety, but I wondered.

  "I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day. It was . . . inexcusable. Mea culpa. You have been so generous to me and I . . ." He shook his head, and looked away, as though he were close to tears.

  His lips were so pale as to be nearly indistinguishable from his pallid skin. If Nicholas, this afternoon, was a vampire in the pink (or red) of health, then Giuseppe was the picture of one at death's door. Aware of Giuseppe's sad history with Nicholas and Rinaldo, I could only grit my teeth at the unfairness of it. A vampire who starves to death doesn't exsanguinate. He merely falls, like a deflated balloon, and sinks to the earth.

  "Giuseppe, I understand the strain you're under, but . . . please, if you need help, go to the Blood Bank on St. Marks, tell Ysabel I sent you."

  He shook his head again, but I could tell that my offer had offended him. "Thank you, Miss Hollis, but I am fine. I have my own sources. It's just . . ." He trailed off, looked down, as though he was struggling to find words. "My son. My youngest. He fell ill, terribly ill last week. The doctors aren't sure . . ."

  "What happened?"

  Giuseppe swallowed. "Polio. He needs a hospital, but . . ."

  Before he had finished the sentence, I was reaching into my bag and pulling out what remained of my funds from Amir. I handed it to him. "Please. Take it. That should at least see your son to a hospital. If there's anything else I can do . . ."

  "Miss Hollis, I couldn't possibly."

  He looked at the bills, torn.

  I put my hand on his elbow. "Please. You can pay me back when this trouble blows over."

  "You are an angel, Miss Hollis," he said. He pressed my hand and then headed off in the opposite direction. I stared after him when he left, frowning. That man seemed to be walking under his own personal storm cloud.

  My pockets were empty as I walked home. A situation all too familiar.

  The party was as swanky as Lily promised, and if my appearance was not quite so stunning as that of the city's most promising Other reporter, I didn't embarrass myself either. She had outfitted me this time in organza a shade of burgundy that complemented my hair. It had long sleeves and a high collar--in order to cover my bruises--but made its concession to fashion in the dropped waist and intricate silver beading along the raised hem. Lily had gone through the trouble of buying me a pair of slippers to match the dress, as she had nothing in her closet that could fit my "monstrous feet." My bandeau was made of black jet beads, accented by a large stencil of blue sequins in the shape of a lily. I wondered if this meant everyone in the room knew who had given me my clothes, but then realized it didn't matter. I was as obviously out of place here as Lily would be at a suffragette meeting. We were here to look for Rinaldo, and my clothes would have to do.

  Lily was nearly engulfed by a ring of elegantly dressed men as soon as we stepped into the pent house suite of the Lombardy Hotel. The imported band played discreetly in the corner, but it didn't look as if anyone was yet drunk enough to dance. A server passed me standing alone and lost outside of Lily's ring of admiring males, and placed a champagne flute discreetly in my hand. I took a sip. Funny, I'd always imagined that champagne must be sweeter, given how much everyone rhapsodizes over it. But it certainly tasted leagues better than Horace's bathtub swill, and I knocked the contents back for courage.

  "So," I muttered, suddenly feeling much improved, "where's the food?"

  I drifted away from Lily, admiring the exclusive and freakishly expensive gowns of the attending ladies. It angered me, in an abstract way, that these people could waste the equivalent of Giuseppe's yearly salary on one evening gown, but the intense desire the clothes provoked in me were either evidence of my most primitive sensibilities, or my most elevated ones. A few men gave me admiring glances and looked rather dapper in their evening suits. I caught myself forgetting the food table entirely and looking for Amir.

  But of course Amir would never be welcome at a party like this, or in a hotel like the Lombardy. Lily had been my formal invitation inside, but my skin color was just as important. A guilty thought--wasn't I now a party to it? I continued wandering and finally caught sight of my personal Valhalla. The food table had been stocked with decadent mounds of caviar and foie gras, in addition to dozens of different cheeses and tiny tea sandwiches. I could hear the band quite clearly now--food and music, apparently, the two necessary items that could be reliably packed into the corner of a party. They were playing a number I recognized, though I was so busy downing gourmet cheese it took me a moment to recall the name. "Basin Street Blues." Curious, I popped a few olives in my mouth and examined the band. A fairly standard six-piece, with drums, bass, piano, two clarinets and a saxophone. They were quite good, filling the performance with deft jazz trills and unexpected syncopation.

  "You enjoy the new Negro music, I take it?"

  I turned to see that one of the dapper gentlemen I had been admiring earlier had joined me at my refreshment table refuge.

  "You know, I'd always called it Jazz," I said.

  His blond hair had been carefully parted down the middle, giving him a German look, which was only exacerbated by a chin with a cleft so firm it could have served as a handhold to a mountain climber. I think he fancied he looked quite handsome.

  "Yes, of course," he said. His accent was New En gland, but of the variety jealous it had been forced to cross the Atlantic. "But it has the meanest roots. I told Arnold he should hire a string quartet instead, but he wouldn't hear of it. 'People want to dance,' he said." He looked at me and I found myself staring at the cleft in his chin. Did he ever lose things in there? Change, perhaps? "Do you like to dance, Miss . . ."

  "H-Hollis," I said, suddenly flustered.

  He smiled, and I was now overwhelmed at the depth of his dimples. "Bernard Simpson," he said, extending his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  Bernard Simpson? I remembered reading that name before. And come to think of it, that penny-romance face of his seemed familiar, too. "The Prisoner of Arabia?" I said, recalling the name of the latest in a sad line of sheik copycats.

  He bowed. "At your service," he said. "I'm surprised you recognized me. They do wonders with makeup these days."

  I had to gulp champagne to keep from laughing. The only reason I remembered the billboard was how much he'd resembled a wealthy New En gland prep schooler dressed up for a costume party. One could practically see the shoe-black running out of his hair.

  Luckily, Lily came to my rescue as I was fumbling for a method of complimenting his travesty of a film. "Pardon, Bernie, but I have to take Zephyr away from you for a moment."

  He nodded and then Lily was off, dragging me through the crowd until we could manage a bit of privacy near the glass windows that overlooked the city.

  "What a world-class bore," she said, rolling her eyes in Bernard's direction. "And that ghastly movie of his! His daddy's a financier in Hollywood. Bernie thinks he's handsome enough, but seems to have overlooked the fact that he can't act."

  I giggled. W
as this my second glass of champagne? "Well, your rescue was well-timed. I think we can both be sure he is not a secret vampire mob boss."

  "None of that gaggle of boys over there, either."

  "And here I thought you were flirting shamelessly."

  Lily smiled. "That, too."

  "Well, where does that leave us?"

  She leaned against the wall, and adjusted the spaghetti-thin straps of her blue gown. "If he's here, Rinaldo should be older. With the respectable, cultural-attache, port and cigars crowd. So we talk, we flatter, we move on."

  "Are you sure you'll recognize the signs?"

  "If I see anyone at all suspicious, I'll make sure you meet them."

  "Right," I said, eyeing my glass and seeing it was empty. "Let's get to it."

  "Wait, there's something else. I met with a contact I've been cultivating for the past few days. Part of le grand expose. Dore's regular shoe-shine boy." Lily looked like she'd just eaten a canary.

  "What kind of a vampire has a shoe-shine boy?" I asked.

  "This one, apparently. Before his untimely end, he was known for enjoying a certain standard of living. And it turns out that while this kid shined our sucker's shoes, he overheard a few fascinating things."

  I rested my head against the wall, as it was throbbing with excitement. "Does he know where Rinaldo--"

  She shook her head, cutting me off. "Sadly, the boy didn't know anything about that. But he did hear Dore discussing some new 'opportunity,' a few weeks ago. Something he called a new 'line of business' opened up by some mysterious contact in Germany. Well, where have we heard that recently? Faust, of course. But Rinaldo didn't discover Faust himself. It looks like someone, some very rich someone, bought the recipe and the means of production from the German, contacted Rinaldo--out of all the bootleggers and gin-runners in this city, might I add--and suggested they make a deal."

  This just got deeper and deeper. "Well, who was it?" I whispered. "Who made the deal?"

  She shook her head. "The kid didn't know. I don't think Dore knew. But maybe the seller picked Rinaldo because he felt some kind of solidarity with him. Because he's a sucker? Which might mean our seller is Other, too, but Dore never actually saw him."

  "So it could mean anything."

  "Welcome to journalism."

  I sighed and Lily extended her elbow. "Well, time to be fabulous. Which entails not sitting by the refreshment table as though it's your personal trough."

  I glared, took her elbow and glided back into the thick of the party. The crowd had grown since we began our tete-a-tete, and I began to detect the social waves that always come over a party when someone important enters. It's a certain quality of forced nonchalance, rapt attention masquerading as indifference. For a moment I wondered if the new arrival could be someone interesting--a musician like Benny Goodman or Josephine Baker--but I saw his utterly disappointing face soon enough: Jimmy Walker, living up to his name as the Night Mayor of New York, with his latest vaudeville floozy dangling off his arm.

  "Oh, damn," Lily said. She tugged on my elbow. "Come on, we've got to hide you. Hopefully he's on his way to a better party."

  But I stayed stubbornly where I was. "How dare he?" I muttered, nearly overcome. Lily groaned and put her hand to her forehead.

  "Well, he dares. Mayors do that, you know."

  "Bad ones, maybe. I bet you voted for him."

  "Well . . . I . . ."

  Suddenly, Lily grew rigid. Beau Jimmy had spotted us. He gave a little wave and inclined his head. From this close, I could see that his bearcat was a favorite of the recent tabloids, a particularly voluptuous and vivacious member of the Ziegfeld girls. He left her in apparently breathless conversation with two other men and sauntered over to us.

  "I'm going to murder you," Lily muttered under her breath, while keeping a perfect smile plastered on her face. "I'm going to murder you and dance on your corpse and not a jury in the world will convict me."

  "Oh, why even go to trial? Just give Beau Jimmy a kiss."

  "Torture," she whispered, "then murder."

  "Miss Harding, Miss Hollis. Politics must be jading me, because I have a hard time believing this meeting is a coincidence." I was sure his charming smile was just as insincere as Lily's, but it was at least more convincing. He had the rosy flush of the freshly inebriated, though he'd just arrived. Knowing our mayor, it was probably his third party of the night.

  "Oh, no," Lily said, laughing, her voice at least an octave higher than normal. "It's such a surprise--"

  "I can't quite believe it, myself," I interrupted, loudly. Lily gave my ankle a vicious thwack. "I expect you think your attentions are flattering?" In fact, I was starting to wonder. Why, after a dozen meetings on the steps of City Hall, had our estimable mayor chosen now to acknowledge my existence?

  I don't know how I could tell, since I doubt a single muscle had moved in his practiced, insouciant smile, but I got the sudden impression that he was now genuinely interested. I had engaged the game. "How fascinating," he said, his deep voice not precisely loud, but delib erately carrying. "What do you think attracted me first, Miss Hollis? Your witty chants at the sucker rallies? Are the shrill voices of your suffragettes like an aria to mine ears?"

  I sensed, not so much as heard, Lily's silent wail beside me as she imagined her imminent social demise. I didn't worry--I somehow doubted her place in society was as fragile as she liked to imagine.

  I smiled sweetly. "Oh, I see the trouble now. Of course. You'd never have passed those horrible laws if we'd just asked more politely. Perhaps we should have sung, is that it? You hear a little Gershwin and Faust's approval goes to committee?"

  Around us, muffled laughter. Jimmy Walker narrowed his eyes, but his smile was broad and genuine. "You battle-axes? Hardly a Wagnerian chorus. Care to prove me wrong, Miss Hollis? I think someone told me you sang."

  This suggestion was greeted with such enthusiasm by the crowd that I had only to clear my throat in sudden terror for all to construe it as agreement.

  "Arnold!" shouted our odious mayor. "Tell the band they've got an addition."

  "Lily," I whispered, frantic. "Wait, I don't want to sing. Tell them to stop--"

  She just pursed her lips and took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. "Knock 'em dead, Zeph," she said, pressing a flute into my hand.

  I only had time to glare at her before a laughing crowd carried me forward to the band. I gulped down the champagne.

  "Don't worry," said the piano player, near my elbow. "You'll do fine." I took a deep breath and he took the empty glass. "You remember me, right?" he said, looking hopeful. I took in his short stature and receding hairline for a blank moment. Then it came to me, then: the white piano player from Horace's! I was overcome with relief.

  "Thanks," I said. "I'm not sure how this happened."

  "Price of fame, I guess. You want to try 'Tea for Two'? I'd say this party needs a little kick."

  He was so clearly doing his best to put me at ease that I had to smile. At least he'd played with me before. Maybe this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

  The drummer counted out the beat and suddenly I was facing the expectant party crowd, tipsy and nervous and determined to not make a complete ass of myself. I think I succeeded. At least, people clapped and the piano player nodded at me and Lily managed to say, "Not bad," instead of the furious diatribe I'd expected. As for Beau Jimmy, he tipped his wineglass in my direction and then acceded to the demands of his Ziegfeld girl, who seemed to want to attend another party.

  After my run-in with the mayor, I stuck to the refreshment table. Lily combed the crowd for likely prospects in our Rinaldo hunt. She quickly homed in on an older gentleman--balding, liver spots on his pate and puffing away on a monstrous Cuban cigar. Aside from an occasional cough, she seemed undeterred by the smoke. I could only admire her fortitude. And now that I headed over, I saw some faint hint of Other about him. Probably not vampire, but perhaps worth a shot.

  "Why, Lily," I
said, laughing like I was precariously inebriated, "you've been hogging his attentions all to yourself without so much as introducing me. How gauche!"

  As I expected, Mr. Cuban Cigar was delighted to make the acquaintance of another young, flatteringly curious girl. Lily gave me just one dirty look before turning the charm back on. I supposed she realized that I must have had a reason to barge in on her reconnaissance work. Mr. Cuban Cigar's real name was Earl something-or-other, and he played around with stock options down on Wall Street. The sort of stultifyingly boring activity made electric to some people by the addition of very large Federal Reserve notes. His evening suit might as well have been made of sewn-together hundred-dollar bills: he'd made every other effort to broadcast his wealth. Even diamond cuff links, twice as large as those holding together the sleeves of the sucker I popped in the alley three nights ago. I looked him over very carefully and attempted to sniff while Lily spoke. Not a vampire. But something else . . . I noticed it, finally, when I pretended to lose my balance. He caught me and held me against him for a few moments longer than appropriate. Certainly long enough for me to see that the markings on his scalp weren't liver spots, but stretch marks. And if I glanced down his starched, high collar, I could see that they covered the rest of his body, as well. A skinwalker. Do it long enough and the physical effects are just as obvious as chronic drinking.

  And occasionally just as debilitating. In the modern era, skinwalkers could either be born with their abilities or acquire them through highly immoral means. And in the latter case, they tended to be as sensitive to sunlight and alcohol as any vampire. Was it possible that everyone had mistaken Rinaldo for a vampire, when really he was just something Other?

  "Oh, Lily, look!" I cried, stumbling forward. "It's dear Arnold! We really must say hello. Plea sure to meet you," I shouted over my shoulder. He looked bemused, so I blew him a kiss. There, that ought to do it. Now, the only problem with faking drunk loudly is that you can't suddenly turn sober again. And rich men, apparently, adore drunk women. It took us almost an hour to get out of the party and back on the streets, where we could finally speak.