Swan Song

by Tracey Ward

  I’m a woman – breathing deep and burning fast.

  “What is it about you and gangsters, huh?” he rasps, his hands pinning my arms to my sides. “Is this what you like? The violence? The danger?”

  “You,” I confess in a strained whisper. “I like you.”

  He stares at me as though he didn’t hear me. As though he can barely even see me. My words don’t register with him, or if they do, they mean nothing. “This is how it is with me. Nothing nice. Nothing sweet. Nothing real or meaningful to tell your girlfriends about.”

  “I don’t care about all of that,” I breathe, my chest painfully being crushed by his.

  “You will. Eventually you will, and I won’t give you any of it. I’m all whiskey, all sour, and you think you want it now, but in the long run you’ll want something else. Something I don’t have. So why don’t you save us both the trouble, sweetheart, and go sing this song to Tommy or one of the other guys drooling over you every night in that joint.”

  He shoves away from me, leaving me limp against the cold, brick wall. He backs away a few steps, but his eyes never leave mine. He’s waiting for something. Maybe for me to cry or for me to run to him, cling to him. Beg him to see that he’s wrong and that I want him any way I can have him. But as much as my body misses the weight of him against it, that’s one thing I’ll never do. I’ll never beg any man for anything.

  So I walk away and I don’t look back.

  Chapter Seven

  My head is killing me. It’s not the first time this week, but I really hope it’s the last. I must be coming down with something. I think about asking around to some of the girls, see if they’re feeling under the weather too, but I don’t want to cause a fuss. I don’t want people knowing I’m getting sick because it will only get back to Tommy or Ralph and they’ll flip their lids. Rescheduling acts during the holiday season is tough. One night with me out of commission will be a huge production for them, meaning it’d be a huge production for me and a whole lot of guilt, so I wince against the lights pouring down on me here on the stage, and I keep it to myself.

  “Do you wanna switch the order of the songs around?” Smitty asks.

  I take a long look at the drummer, trying to focus. “Yeah,” I tell him, “Let’s bring the slow number to the close. Tone the place down a bit.”

  “When are we starting with Christmas songs in the act?” Clara calls out loudly from the chorus lineup.

  She’s a young girl with wild red hair but shapely hips and ankles. The ankles are what got her hired. That and Hal’s strange obsession with them. He begged and pleaded with Ralph to give the girl a chance, and lucky for her he did. Lucky for me she has talent. Two days later she was in the show.

  It only took Hal two more to get into her.

  “Not until it’s actually Christmas time,” I mutter.

  “Amen,” Smitty agrees quietly.

  I look at him sideways, grinning.

  “It’s practically Christmas now,” Clara whines. “Don’t ya see the snow outside? It’s the season. Yo ho ho.”

  I grit my teeth. “It’s ‘ho, ho, ho.’”

  “Huh?”

  “What you said. It’s not ‘yo ho ho’. You sound like a pirate. Santa—“ I grit my teeth, closing my eyes for a second. “No. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. No Christmas music yet.”

  She’s not listening, her meager attention span already spent. She’s looking past me and grinning like a viper out into the darkened seating area. Either she’s nuts or she’s smiling at someone, and I thought the place was empty except for us. I squint into the shadows so I can see what she’s looking at.

  There’s a man sitting back perfectly shrouded in darkness as though he belongs there. Only the outline of his stocky frame is visible.

  Drew.

  My heart flies in my chest, but I fight to keep my excitement off my face. My sheer, unadulterated pleasure at him being here. Even with the way our last meeting ended, I’m aching to see him. To talk to him, laugh with him, dance with him, stand in a cold, filthy alley with him and feel the weight of his terrifying eyes boring down on me and challenging me. I can’t get the guy out of my head, out from under my skin, and it’s too bad because up until just now, I’d been fairly sure I would never see him again.

  “She’s right, angel,” the shadow speaks up.

  My stomach drops out in instant disappointment. It’s not him. It’s Hal watching his taste on the sly practicing her dance routine.

  The fact that my practice is being used as foreplay on top of my crushed hope makes me shaking angry. “Get out, Hal,” I say severely.

  “What?” he asks indignantly. “I sided with you!”

  “I don’t care. Get out. No spouses, no girlfriends, no boyfriends, no paying customers allowed at rehearsals. You know the rules. Beat it.”

  I hear him chuckle at my anger as he walks through the room toward the side door. He’s heading to the back where the guys are playing poker. That’s their rehearsal. Trading greasy, wrinkled, ripped pieces of green paper back and forth in exchange for lies and empty promises. The same money traded back and forth between the whores for their time and valiant efforts. The same money I get paid in.

  “I’ll come find ya when I’m done here, Daddy,” Clara calls after Hal.

  Her high pitched baby voice is grating on my nerves. She’s doing it on purpose, which only makes it worse. Some men like that childlike attitude, I guess. Personally, I want to slap her silly every time she talks, running around the club pouting at everybody and calling all the men ‘Daddy’.

  “Shut up and get in line, Clara,” I tell her curtly.

  She scowls at me. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “Hal!”

  “Do whatever she says, Clara!” he shouts back, then disappears through the doorway.

  I grin at Clara. “You heard your daddy,” I tell her, my voice saccharine sweet. “Get in line.”

  She continues to scowl at me, but she goes without protest.

  I get this a lot. Most of the girls working in the club are attached to a gangster in some way, shape, or form. It affords them certain rights. Certain status. As the main attraction of the Cotton Club here in Cicero, I have a certain status all my own. One I earned by myself that doesn’t depend on anyone else. Really what these girls are doing is riding the coattails of power trailing from these men.

  Not me. I own my own status. I’m afforded my own set of rights. I’m a rare female power and sometimes people forget that. Sometimes they have to be reminded.

  “Alright, let’s take it from the to—“

  “Adrian!” Tommy shouts, bursting into the room and making my headache spike.

  I groan inside. This rehearsal will never be allowed to start meaning it will never end and I’ll eventually die on this stage of either agony or old age. “Yeah, Tommy, what?”

  “I got a new girl for ya.”

  He holds open the door for a young woman behind him. She’s looking around nervously like a kitten that wandered into a stranger’s home and can’t find a way out. Her eyes are wide with shock and curiosity, her hands pawing at the ends of her sleeves as she worries the fabric incessantly. She’s young, probably fifteen or so, and absolutely gorgeous. Her skin is ebony in color and pure perfection, smooth as silk. Her hair is pinned expertly on top of her head with not a strand out of place, and her dress – though nothing but a cheap, thin cotton – is well maintained and perfectly pressed. I glance at Clara and a couple of the other girls where they stand slouching, snapping gum in their mouths like cows in the fields slathering over a chunk of cud, and I think in comparison this kid looks elegant as Cleopatra.

  “What’s your name?” I call to her, coming down off the stage.

  She meets my eyes without an ounce of fear or hesitation, a level of self-assurance that startles me. I get down to floor level with her, and in better light I’m struck by how familiar she looks. Maybe she’s a regular per
former somewhere else that Tommy has sweet talked away.

  “Elisha,” she answers quietly, though not timidly.

  “Can you dance?”

  “Would I give you a chorus girl who couldn’t dance?” Tommy demands.

  “Yes, you would and you have.”

  “Who?”

  “Bethany, for one.”

  “Hey!” Bethany shouts from the stage.

  “She still works here?” Tommy mutters, looking her up and down with sudden interest.

  “They don’t stop working here just because you stop working them.”

  He returns his eyes to me, grinning. “This girl can dance, I promise. Train her up, get her in the show.”

  “As what and when?”

  “I told you, as a chorus girl, and immediately.”

  “The chorus line is full. You want me to use her as an understudy?”

  “Only if you don’t want her to get paid, and then I’d wonder why we’re doin’ any of this.”

  I frown. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s Eddie’s daughter.”

  “She’s what?!” I take his arm and walk away from the girl with him, out of earshot. “You can’t put Eddie’s daughter in one of these outfits to dance in front of this crowd,” I hiss. “Are you crazy?”

  “You asked me to take care of that family. That’s what I’m doin’.”

  “I thought you’d give them some money. Help them get by until Eddie is better and able to work again.”

  Tommy shakes his head, lighting a cigarette that he pulls from behind his ear. “This ain’t a charity, Adrian. I’m not givin’ away anything for free, you got that? This is the solution. Take it or leave it.”

  I hate it, but I have to take it. Eddie can’t work right now, his wife has to take care of their kids, and when I consider her other options for working in the club, being in the chorus isn’t that bad. She’ll get pawed at less up on stage than she would working the floor as a waitress or cigarette girl. Or in the kitchen. God help us if a pretty girl like her was working in the kitchen or anywhere else in this building with dark corners and lockable doors. Backstage is always swarming with people. She’s safer out front in the spotlight.

  I sigh heavily. “How long?”

  “Doc says he’ll be right as rain in a few weeks.”

  “Fine,” I mutter. I turn toward the stage. “Clara! Christmas just came early after all! Clear out. You’re on vacation for the next month.”

  “What?!” she screeches.

  “You heard her,” Tommy tells her firmly, standing directly behind me. The smoke from his cigarette is blowing over my head and cascading in front of me like a waterfall. “Scram!”

  I step away from him when he shouts, the sound like an ice pick in my temple.

  “Come on,” I tell Elisha warily. “Come over here and sit down.”

  “Don’t thank me or nothin’,” Tommy scolds.

  I turn to him and give a theatrical curtsy, intentionally bowing forward to give him a good look down my sweater. Breasts – they can pacify the tiniest of babies and the biggest of men. “Thank you so much, Mr. Giordano. You’ve been a peach.”

  He grins at my sarcasm, scans the girls in the chorus line like a housewife shopping meat at the butcher’s, then heads toward the back. The women watch him leave with a mixture of lust, longing, and fear.

  I motion for Elisha to follow me toward the stage. “You’ll watch this rehearsal and get a feel for how things work, get a chance to see the routine, then we’ll try and work you into it. You’ll be in the back or on the far side in the beginning since you won’t be very good, but maybe we’ll work you in farther later.”

  “Yes, Miss Marcone,” she agrees hastily as she falls in step behind me.

  “Call me Adrian.”

  “Alright, Miss Adrian.”

  “No,” I tell her with a smile. “Just Adrian.”

  She looks up at me in surprise and shakes her head. “I coul—“

  “Yes you can. I’ve been trying to get your dad to do it for years but he’s a stubborn one.” I stop to look at her appraisingly – taking in her curvaceous figure and fresh, young face – and my anxiety spikes again. “Are you stubborn, Elisha?”

  She grins. “Wouldn’t be my daddy’s daughter otherwise.”

  “Good,” I tell her, gesturing for her to sit as I turn back toward the stage. “Stubborn will keep you alive.”

  ***

  “You can’t do this, Tommy,” Hal protests.

  Tommy shoots him a hard look. “I what?”

  Hal pauses, rethinking his phrasing. “Look, it’s not right. It’s not fair to Clara. She earned her spot on that stage. You can’t just take it from her and replace her with some charity case.”

  “She only got a shot at that spot because you wanted to fuck her,” Tommy reminds him.

  “Doesn’t change the fact that she’s got talent.” Hal turns to me, his eyes pleading for me to see his side. “She’s a good dancer, ain’t she, Aid?”

  “Yeah,” I agree heartily. “She’s a great dancer.”

  Hal turns to Tommy. “You see?”

  “But she’s a shit person,” I add.

  Tommy chuckles.

  “That’s my girl you’re talkin’ about,” Hal warns me sharply.

  “Yeah, and she’s my chorus girl, one I put up with out of necessity. She’s got a bad attitude. The last three days without her have been a dream.”

  “But she can dance, that’s what matters,” Hal insists.

  “It is, you’re right. And Elisha can dance too. And she does it without being a pain in my side, so I’m keeping her and that’s that.”

  Hal turns to Tommy, changing his tactic. “What is she supposed to do for money, huh? Go get a job someplace else for a month? That’s crazy.”

  “You mean to tell me you can’t afford your girl’s expenses for one measly month?” Tommy asks quietly. “That’s pathetic. If you can’t float her for that long, you shouldn’t have her. Let someone who can take care of her have a go at her.”

  “I can take care of her,” Hal says angrily.

  “Well then get out of my office and go do it. I don’t wanna hear any more about it, you read me?”

  “Yeah,” Hal replies morosely. “I read ya. You’ll save a spot for her, right, Adrian? She can come back in a month?”

  “Don’t hassle her with this,” Tommy warns him angrily. “Who knows what will happen in a month? Maybe we’ll all be dead.”

  “That’s chipper,” I mutter.

  “What I’m sayin’ is don’t worry about it right now.” He turns to Hal, looking at him seriously. “But speakin’ of worries, what’s the story with the Tremblays? What was our discount on the late shipment?”

  Hal shifts in his seat. “We didn’t get one.”

  Tommy sits back hard in his chair, leveling his gaze on Hal calmly. It’s the calm you have to be careful of with Tommy. Even my hair stands on end when it comes around. “Why not?” he asks darkly.

  “They gave us a few free cases of gin instead.” Hal shrugs. “I took it. I figured we can make more money off selling free gin than they ever would have given us in discount for the late bourbon shipment.”

  “How much? How many cases?”

  “Six with twelve bottles in every case.”

  Hal waits patiently while Tommy thinks it over. I know he’s doing the math, figuring out what Ralph would have insisted on in discounts and what we can make off the free gin.

  “How does it taste?” he finally asks. “Is it rotgut?”

  “It’s legitimate gin, bottled at a distillery in Canada. No bathtub shit. I tasted it when they offered it.” Hal shrugs again. “It was fine. Decent.”

  “I’ve drank it,” I pipe up. “It’s swell. Better than the whiskey.”

  “It’s gin, though,” Tommy mutters to himself. “Not a lot of people drink gin.”

  “We could put gin and tonics on special for the holidays,” Hal suggests.
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  “Yeah, maybe. It’ll make it go farther.” Tommy glances at me. “Is that how you’re drinking it or are you taking it straight up?”

  “With tonic water,” I tell him.

  “Alright. Tonic water is cheaper than gin. We’ll still come out on top with this deal. Good work, Hal.”

  Hal smiles proudly. “Thanks, Tommy.”

  “Now get the hell out. Check the bar. Make sure they’re ready for the night.”

  “You got it.”

  Hal disappears from the room, the door closing behind him with a decided click. I stand up and start to pace, feeling caged all of the sudden. I want to talk to Tommy about Elisha, but I don’t know how to say it or what it is I really want to say. All I know is that I’m worried about her being here. I’m worried about Eddie and his injured arm. I’m worried about my girls in the line and my guys in the band and the holidays coming up, and more than anything I’m worried about these headaches that will not let me go.

  “You’re scowling,” Tommy scolds quietly.

  “Am I?”

  “This thing with Elisha, this is what you asked me for,” he says, nailing my anxiety on the head. “Be happy.”

  “Oh, I’m thrilled.” I mutter, collapsing down on the side of his desk. I’m facing the wall behind him, looking at an ugly painting of an ugly woman and wishing for the fiftieth time tonight that I could go home and nurse the headache growing behind my eyes.

  “What’s with you lately?” he asks, pouring himself a drink. It looks like bourbon. “You’ve been evil the last few days.”

  I shake my head. The movement makes me feel a little dizzy. “I haven’t been feeling well.”

  “You gettin’ sick?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You better not be,” he grumbles, taking a sip of his drink. “You want one? Might set you straight.”