The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  “Do that again,” Nick demanded through his laughter.

  Shan had no issue proceeding, but would sensibly vary his target. He leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his neck, taking up space. “Pop, it’s like I told ya,” he said, shifting to Nick’s tone. “If you’d have just let me borrow some dough, I could’ve bought the paint to decorate that, uh, Sistine Chapel joint myself.”

  Finally Mr. Capello’s lips crept into a smile. Lina was pointing at Nick, saying Shan had captured him perfectly, despite her brother’s weak protests that it hadn’t come close.

  The waitress delivered their desserts while Mr. Capello finished off his grappa. He ordered another as Shan presented warmhearted portrayals of Mrs. Capello, then Lina. The candle on the table was melting into thin white streaks. Its flame accentuated the glow in Mrs. Capello’s face.

  “Do something else now,” Lina said following a brief quiet, not wanting the evening to end. And really, neither did Shan.

  He glanced behind him to view the restaurant from their corner table. The opera music had ended, and many of the diners had cleared out after their meals. He supposed he could pull out a song or two.

  Boosted by the old buzz of performing, Shan started with “Foolish Questions” in the style of Billy Murray. He stood up now and again, when action enhanced the humor. Mrs. Capello was in the midst of eating her cannoli when Shan reached the line about falling down the elevator shaft. Her resulting giggles sent the confectioner’s sugar from her dessert straight into Lina’s hair, and the whole family burst into laughter.

  Once they were settled again, Shan moved on to a slew of jokes. Some he had forgotten about until they all came rushing back. Of course, he tailored the show for his audience, skipping the more unsavory parts as well as impressions only Irishmen would appreciate.

  This concluded the act, and Shan took an exaggerated bow. But the Capellos weren’t the only ones who applauded. He twisted toward the tables behind him, where strangers were clapping and raising wineglasses. Cheeks warming, he offered a few bows with his head and swiftly slid back into his chair, facing the other way.

  In a flash, a man appeared at their table and introduced himself as the owner. Above his low apron, he wore a white long-sleeved shirt with a black bow tie and vest. His personal attention would have seemed a compliment if not for his tight-lipped expression.

  A song request was surely not in the cards. Shan lowered his eyes, preparing to be ushered out.

  But then the owner gestured across the room. “Signore Trevino said he would be very pleased to meet the young boy.” In the opposite corner, three men sat at a table in pinstriped suits. At the center of the trio, a fellow smoking a cigar lifted his ample chin in greeting. Everything about him projected importance.

  The owner waited for approval from Mr. Capello, who looked uneasy with the invite.

  “I’m sure it will only take a moment, signore,” the owner contended. “In the meantime, I will be happy to prepare your check if you would like. The grappa, of course, is free of charge.”

  “Free?” Mr. Capello said.

  “Si. For the boy’s entertainment.” Even as he said this, the owner did not smile.

  At Mr. Capello’s reluctance, Nick scooted his chair back and stood. “Ah, Pop, don’t worry. I’ll go with him. Like he said, it’ll just take a minute. What’s the harm?”

  Shan waited for the go-ahead, his mind still reeling.

  Under the pressure of the owner’s gaze, Mr. Capello nodded. “Only until payment is done.”

  Nick gave a slap to Shan’s shoulder. “Well, come on,” he said, and Shan rose to follow him over. The two men flanking Signore Trevino were focused on their meals, one eating a layered pie—called lasagna, Shan had learned—and the other twisting long noodles with a fork.

  Shan and Nick hadn’t quite reached the table when Signore Trevino reclined in his chair, away from his bowl of clamshells. He wiped his thick fingers one at a time with a napkin. “So, kid. You like to put on shows, huh?”

  Despite the amiable tone, Shan felt like a horse from the track being sized up for its odds.

  “Sometimes, I guess.” He’d made a habit of suppressing his brogue, but now, without intention, he caught himself sounding a bit like Nick.

  “Yeah? Well, I got a supper club in the Bronx, just off Third. Called the Royal. Ever heard of it?”

  When Shan hesitated, Nick jumped in. “Who hasn’t?” He said this with such confidence that Shan knew he was fibbing. And so did Signore Trevino, based on his smirk.

  The man drew from his cigar and exhaled a cloud of earthy smoke. “So, whaddya think?”

  Somehow Shan had missed the question. “Sir?”

  “About making some dough with that stuff. Becoming a regular act.”

  A week ago, when Shan was out on the street begging for an audition, he would have answered with a resounding yes. But now, fed and housed and free of desperation, he reminded himself there was a vast difference between amusing a family over supper and performing on demand, as he’d done in a hundred seedy pubs.

  “I’m not really sure,” he said in truth.

  Slight surprise betrayed the man’s even expression, but not the offended kind. He tapped his cigar on an ashtray. “Well, when you make up your mind, you come see me at the club. I’m around most weekends. Just tell them Max sent ya.”

  Shan nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, and kid. This is for you.” Max sent a look to one of his companions, who promptly stopped eating.

  The slender fellow had to be in his early twenties, his pockmarked cheeks suggesting scars from smallpox. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he produced a leather billfold and pulled out five one-dollar bills. He tossed them onto the edge of the table with the ease of emptying lint from a pocket.

  “For the laughs,” Signore Trevino explained.

  Shan just stared at the cash, as if waiting for a punch line. Workers at the docks, or any number of factories, probably took weeks to earn that much.

  “What, you don’t want it?”

  Nick stepped in. He scooped up the money and shoved the cash into Shan’s pocket in one fluid motion. “Of course he does. And he’s real grateful too.” He shot Shan a glance.

  Max drew his head back, his brow furrowed as if to say, Who the hell is this guy?

  “I’m Nick Capello. And this here’s my younger brother, Tommy. It’s a real pleasure.” He offered his hand, but before the man could shake it, Mr. Capello interjected.

  “Niccolò,” he called over, an edge in his tone. “Andiamo.”

  It was time to leave.

  19

  A dim alley in the Bronx was no place to be on a Friday night. Standing in line with dolled-up patrons, Shan tugged at his collar. His borrowed black tie felt like a noose.

  Ever since Nick had suggested the outing three days ago, Shan had wavered on the idea. Being here now only solidified his reservations. Not that he had a choice, really. If it weren’t for Nick, he’d be out on the streets, or stuck in an orphanage in one country or another. The least Shan could do was tag along for an evening. He only wished it hadn’t required being sneaky with Nick’s parents.

  “We’re just gonna catch a show,” Nick had called to his mother, before he and Shan slipped out the door. According to Nick, given his father’s disapproval of Max Trevino’s generosity, it was best to stay vague about the setting of that show.

  “Tommy,” Nick said now, urging Shan to keep moving with the line. The impatience in his voice indicated that it had taken several attempts to catch Shan’s attention.

  “Sorry,” Shan said in a hush, “I’m not used to answering to that.”

  “Yeah, well, that’d better change in the next five minutes. Last thing I need is a guy like Max Trevino thinking I’m a liar.”

  The Royal was on the second floor of a large brick building, atop a drugstore and barbershop, with its entrance on the side. Shan glanced up the narrow stairwell that led to
a doorman, a hulking Italian with arms like cannons, making Shan even less excited about the excursion. Again he pulled his collar from his neck.

  “Now, remember.” Nick spoke just above a whisper. “If you’re still gonna be a dummy and not take the offer, give me a chance to land a job first. And stop fidgeting, will ya?”

  Shan forced his hands to his sides, but wriggled a shoulder in search of comfort. “I can’t help it. The bloody shirt’s too small, and the suit’s too big.” Even his fedora didn’t feel right.

  “Bloody?” Nick grumbled and shook his head. “You can’t be using words like that. Jesus.”

  It had been a while since Shan’s old life had slipped into his words. He needed to focus. The faster Nick completed his mission, the sooner they could go home.

  At last they made their way up the stairs. In front of them, a pair of couples—two men in tuxedos, their dates wrapped in fur stoles—were granted entry and sauntered into the club.

  “Here we go,” Nick said. Together they stepped forward on the landing.

  The doorman gave Shan a once-over. “What are you—in grade school? Beat it.” He waved his hand to summon the next people in line.

  But Nick didn’t budge. He stood taller in his black suit, one that actually fit. “We were invited.”

  The man laughed. “Yeah? By who?”

  “By Max,” Nick replied, as if nothing could be more obvious. Daring to press further, he added, “Don’t believe me? Go ask him yourself.”

  The doorman looked unfazed. He cocked his head, surveying them for truth. Or more likely, weighing potential repercussions from wrongfully turning them away.

  Annoyed, he jerked his thumb toward the entrance. “Go.”

  “Appreciate it,” Nick said, and led Shan through the door. Once it shut behind them, Nick rolled his eyes. “What a chump.”

  Music gained volume as they continued down a hall lit by a series of sconces. Nick removed his hat and smoothed his hair. Same as Shan’s, it had grown a good inch since the ship’s arrival almost two months earlier. A lifetime ago.

  “Now, just act like we belong here,” Nick reminded him, “and we’ll fit right in. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t get the suit dirty. I gotta get ’em back by midnight, before anyone notices they’re gone.”

  When the words sank in, Shan pulled him to a stop. “You said you borrowed them.”

  Nick looked defensive. “Yeah, and I did.” But then he explained, “Got a pal who works at his gramp’s cleaners. Owed me a favor.”

  “What about the shoes and hats?”

  Nick shrugged. “From a pawnshop. Those are keepers.”

  Shan felt a headache setting in.

  “Come on, already.” Nick guided them around the corner, where a gal at a counter stood before racks of overcoats and shawls. She blinked, presumably due to their age—or perhaps just Shan’s, as she couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than Nick.

  “May I help you?” she said to Nick. Then a moment later: “You got coats to check?”

  Nick had forgotten how to speak. His reaction was understandable. The girl had ivory skin and piercing green eyes, accentuated by the matching ribbon in her platinum curls.

  Shan answered for him. “Not tonight.”

  She gave a shrug of indifference before moving on to guests who appeared behind them.

  Shan nudged Nick to break the spell, and they plodded onward.

  Regaining his voice, Nick murmured, “Next time we bring coats. Lots and lots of coats.”

  Next time he would be on his own. Shan intended to say this, but the thought splintered and fell away the instant they stepped through the doorway framed in burgundy velvet drapes, entering a world he had never seen.

  All the motion and lights and excitement of a city were contained in a single room. Floral perfumes and woodsy colognes mingled with smoke from men’s cigars. Women, too, puffed on long black filters while clutching cocktails and flutes of champagne. They clinked them high in festive toasts.

  Prohibition was coming, the newspapers had declared. By year’s end the party would be over. Until then, it seemed the people here would enjoy every last drop.

  “Now, this,” Nick said, “is what I call livin’.”

  Shan couldn’t disagree as he watched the colored musicians onstage. They wore white tuxedos with black bow ties while playing trumpets and trombones, saxes and a piano. Couples danced in the center of the room, corralled by a U-shaped arrangement of tables and chairs. The way they hopped about reminded Shan of old jigs from the pubs.

  “Would you care for a smoke, sir?” A woman wearing a tiny, feathered hat and a sparkly dress, brazenly cut above the knees, approached Nick. She carried a tray full of cigars and cigarettes.

  “Not right now, doll,” Nick said, a line he’d clearly practiced. “But maybe you can help me find somebody.”

  “There’s a whole lotta somebodies here. You got a particular one in mind?”

  “Max told me and my brother to ask for him.” Nick held out a folded dollar bill—which, in fact, had previously belonged to Mr. Trevino. “Just tell him Nick and Tommy are here, from Palermo’s.”

  She glanced at Shan. Rather than disbelieving, she looked intrigued. Then she swiped the bill with the motion of a seasoned politician. “This way.”

  She guided them through the sea of linen-draped tables, each flickering with a candle domed in crystal. Waiters delivered meals on fine china. Nearby, a man embraced a woman from behind, guiding her to push a cork from a bottle. She timidly turned away, eyes closed, and the cork shot toward the ceiling. Her friends roared with giddiness as a stream of bubbles spilled onto the checkered tiles.

  “Wait here,” the cigarette girl said. She proceeded on her own to one of the booths along the wall. A partial curtain of white fabric obscured the person she was addressing. When finished, she returned to Nick and gestured toward the booth. “You got your wish.”

  Nick thanked her and headed over with Shan reluctantly trailing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that beneath her words lay a warning.

  “Well, look who it is,” Mr. Trevino said when they approached. Shadows cast by stage lights gave his smile a menacing air. This time he accepted Nick’s eager handshake.

  Shan took off his hat and clutched the brim. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Trevino.”

  “Max,” he corrected before puffing on his cigar. “I see you gave some thought to my offer.”

  “Actually, I”—Shan felt Nick’s gaze sending a reminder—“I have, sir.”

  “Good, that’s good. Here, have a seat.” Max motioned to the vacancies on the white leather cushion.

  The two had barely slid into the booth when Nick chimed in. “Max, I just want you to know, it’d be a real honor to work for you. So if there’s any spot I could fill, I’d sure be grateful.”

  By any spot, of course, he meant outside of menial work, like garbage collecting and shoe shining. Something that required wearing nice suits and hats, accompanied by pay that would allow him to afford both.

  Max raised his brows, as bristly as caterpillars. “You perform like your brother, huh? A duet.” He nodded, imagining the act. “I like it.”

  “Well—no, sir. Not exactly.” Nick’s confidence faltered under Max’s narrowed eyes; the man didn’t like to be confused. “What I’m saying is, if there’s anything else you can think of, I’d welcome the chance. I’m willing to do anything. Just name it.”

  Max leaned back in his seat, not agreeing but not opposing the idea. Then he angled to Shan. “How about you, kid?”

  “Me?”

  “You looking for a chance too?”

  Shan swept his gaze over the room. There was no question how Mr. Capello would feel about their working in a place with cocktails and champagne and gals with dresses cut above the knees. Shan was debating how to decline when a realization stunned him.

  The singer on the microphone—Shan knew his voice. He knew his face. To a small extent, he knew
the man himself.

  Shan looked at Max. “That’s George Cohan.”

  Max glanced at the stage and released a long smoky exhale. “My pal Billy was supposed to be on tonight. But old Murray fell ill at the last minute. Cohan here was good enough to fill in.”

  The revelations competed in Shan’s mind. “You’re saying . . . the Billy Murray?”

  “One and only. I figured you might be a fan of these fellas, what with your songs the other night. Maybe they’d even be willing to share the stage with you sometime. How’d that be?”

  Shan could hardly imagine it. Performing with Mr. Murray himself, or lobbing jokes with the King of Broadway, George Cohan. When they had last met, Shan was living on the streets, his nose runny, throat raspy, clothes filthy and drenched. He must have resembled a scrappy mutt in the alley, a world of difference from his appearance tonight.

  Shan suddenly appreciated the suit from Nick, regardless of size.

  Seconds later, a fellow—a waiter maybe—appeared near the table. Upon the flick of Max’s hand, he leaned in and spoke in a whisper. Max listened closely. Darkness hooded his eyes as the waiter stepped away.

  “Boys,” he said, “got a little business to take care of. But you give the club a call this week and we’ll work out details. Okay with you?”

  “Absolutely.” Nick beamed. “Sir, thank you very much.”

  The man left without saying good-bye. Nor did he wait for Shan’s final decision.

  To Max, the deal was cinched.

  1923

  20

  It’s fascinating, really, when you think about it. How a person can slip into a new life as one would a new pair of shoes. At first there’s a keen awareness of the fit: a stiffness at the heel, the binding of the width, the curve pressed into the arch. But with time and enough steps, the feel becomes so natural you almost forget you’re wearing them at all.

  This was very much the way Shan’s life transformed over the next several years.