Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  “That’s right. Quite a front, huh? She stands up there, keeps an eye on the whole place, and no one ever realizes she isn’t just working for tips.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “You bet it is.”

  I’m about to stand and leave, when he leans in close. His breath smells of what he’s been smoking, sweet and sour and just a bit wrong. “Can I get you a drink? Show my appreciation?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got my drink. Soda water. I’m a law-abiding citizen, just like you.”

  “Well then. You keep your nose clean, hear?”

  I can’t punch him, not yet. If this works, I won’t have to.

  Heading back to my table, I pause, because the scene has shifted. Not paying attention, I missed the moment the cigarette girl disappeared. The cigarette girl’s beau is sweating buckets, and his boss is going to notice, especially when the lunk can’t stop looking at the door and is fidgeting like he wants to run out. M is over by the door talking to the gorilla and trying to catch my eye. Her frown shows it’s serious, and I’ve missed her cue. She raises an annoyed eyebrow. Past time for that distraction. I understand her plan, the need for a long fuse and a slow burn. That means I probably still have time to get started.

  I put on a smile and walk on over to the card game.

  Anthony sees me. He’s likely been watching both M and me just as hard as we’ve been watching him. Maybe not just as hard. But I doubt he’ll have any idea what we’re up to. What we’re really up to, I mean. We’re those two crazy witches, and who knows what a broad’s looking for when she starts scheming, right?

  I touch the shoulder of the player across from Anthony. The guy shivers and licks his lips, and he won’t be good for anything for the rest of the game. I focus on Anthony.

  “Got room for one more, Mr. Margolis?” I ask, sweetly as I know how.

  “Pauline. Doll,” Anthony says, opening his arms, a gesture of false generosity. “How much would it take to hire you away from that broad?”

  He thinks he’s being clever. He thinks he’s putting me in my place, and M too, for all that. I know what he sees, what he thinks he sees.

  “Oh, honey, you know you can’t afford me,” I say, as if I’m really sorry.

  “But Madame over there can?”

  “You gotta understand, we’re like sisters.”

  He shakes his head like he thinks it’s a pity. “Harry, deal the lady in, why don’t you?” He makes a sign and the men at the table shift their places, and the cigarette girl’s beau brings over an extra chair. I know what the stake is, two grand, and I draw the bundle of bills out of my clutch and put it on the table. The players pretend not to be surprised.

  The one called Harry, who’s got a thin moustache and a suit so blue it’s almost purple, deals me in, and we play cards. Harry’s a local guy who’s completely honest because if he weren’t, nobody would play in Anthony’s game. People play in Anthony’s games because they think they can get rich off him, but the secret is that Anthony’s actually a pretty good player. He doesn’t play with his pride was the thing and can fold when he has to.

  The dealer deals, I sweep up my hand, and play. I’ve done this enough it’s reflex, habit. The cards are going to do what they do, I just have to keep up the rhythm.

  First order of business is to break even, because two G’s is worth something no matter what you have. And it’s a matter of saving face, and making sure the boys don’t think they pulled one over on the doll. So we play poker, and I earn back what I put in, and after that I’m not playing to lose, but I’m not exactly playing to win, either. I’m playing to bide time, watching Anthony watch me because he thinks I’m up to something, while I’m also watching the kid, M, and the Fed. And the beaded curtain, just in case. M’s about to mess up her pretty club, surely Gigi will notice and put her foot down.

  M is by the bar again, looking more relaxed than she did a minute ago, so maybe I’m not too late with this. Maybe it’ll all work out and we won’t have to run out in a rain of bullets. People might wonder why M’s not surrounded by men hoping to make time with the beautiful doll who’s all on her own. I think maybe she’s decided not to let them see her.

  Two of the guys at the card game know about M and know, therefore, that they can’t discount me. But two of the guys figure I’m the rube. They have a very bad time of it but stick it out because of pride. Who’s the rube, then?

  I lose a hand, win a hand, and the players chalk it up to luck because it’s easier than admitting a woman can actually play. I don’t win too much, so they don’t get angry. They start bantering again, not forgetting I’m there so much as not taking me seriously.

  “Tommy, you okay there?” Anthony studies his young heavy, who’s been tugging at his collar. He’s going to blow the whole thing if he’s not careful, and I realize why the girl needed help to pull this off. All I can do at the moment is glance at him with a bit of sympathy, then study my cards.

  Tommy looks back, rabbit-eyed. “It’s a little warm in here, sir.”

  “You’re not feeling faint, are you? Tell me you’re not feeling faint.”

  “No, no sir!”

  “Good.”

  And now Anthony’s on edge, and this could all fall to pieces. It isn’t too late to walk away, if I can warn M …

  The Fed, still smoking the cigarette I gave him, is looking green around the gills, and in a fit of agitation pushes away from the table and squares his gaze on the card game. On me. Like he knows I lied, or that the cigarette I gave him isn’t really tobacco. He starts toward the table, and he’s got to know better than to approach Anthony. Or maybe he doesn’t, after all that smoking …

  I have to stay cool and not jump up in a panic, which isn’t easy. I just have to look like I don’t have a clue.

  “What’s this clown want?” Anthony grumbles, and all his boys go stiff, perking up like hunting dogs at a duck pond.

  And just then the singer hits a high note, crazy high, rattling the glasses on the tables and setting my heart pounding. We all can’t help but look on in admiration as she holds that note with full lungs, arms wide, eyes closed, and head tipped back, like she’s singing the world into being.

  The Fed stops, listens, drifts to a table close to the stage, sinks into the chair like he’s in caught in quicksand. The singer’s voice falls back into the chorus and she smiles sweetly at her brand-new greatest admirer.

  I catch M winking at the singer. Yeah, M always knows what she’s doing.

  The game continues. Anthony’s boys relax a notch, except for the cigarette girl’s guy, who’s still watching the door, and Anthony just shakes his head. Not too much longer after that, M touches her earring, adjusts her headband, and strokes the plume across her hair. Time to light the fuse. So I slip a couple of extra aces into my hand. Which I fold. When the hand ends, the dealer sweeps up the cards, shuffles, and deals them out again.

  No one ever thinks to accuse me of palming cards, because where the hell would I hide them in this outfit, with all this bare skin?

  “Boys,” I say, gathering the rest of my winnings, arranging them neatly, fastidiously. “I want to thank you for a lovely time of it, but I’ve got to go. I hope you’re not offended.” I blush and bat my eyes, and they can’t argue because I haven’t done anything to offend them. I haven’t cleaned them out. I haven’t damaged their pride too terribly much.

  “Pauline. Darling. You are welcome at my table anytime.” Anthony spreads his arms like he always does. I lean in and kiss his cheek, and his compatriots at the table glare bullets at him. Smiling sweetly over my shoulder, I return to Madame M.

  “Well, I was starting to wonder if we could pull this off,” she says.

  I scowl. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter, we’re both on the same page now.”

  “You’ll thank me for putting the whammy on the Fed, just wait.”

  She nods at the card game. “About five minutes, before they figur
e it out?”

  “About.”

  “I’m going to go powder my nose. Hold down the fort?”

  “I always do.”

  In about five minutes, right when we called it, the first of the players shouts, “Hey, what are you trying to pull?” Loud enough that everyone in Blue Moon looks over.

  “What do you mean, what am I trying to pull, what are you trying to pull?”

  “You can’t have three aces, because I have three aces!”

  “Boys, boys!” Anthony hollers, but it’s too late. Anthony follows the rules, so they’ve left their guns outside, but that doesn’t stop one of the players from tipping over the table when another guy takes a swing at him. Cards and chips and bills go flying, then skitter across the floor. The bodyguards and hangers-on rush in, trying to protect Anthony, who’s already taken one on the jaw.

  All except Tommy, who’s smarter than he looks because he’s gotten out of the way. M moves to his side and whispers in his ear. He follows her to the front of the club, and I might have been the only one to see them go.

  I move to the back of the club and try to be invisible, but I’m not as good as at it as M is. A dancer screams as the fight spills onto the floor, and the band is back, playing in an only partially effective distraction. A couple of guys look on eagerly, crack their knuckles, and smile wide enough to show inhuman fangs. They’d enjoy a fight, and they’d win, oh yes.

  I know better than to ask for trouble, so I sit on the bar, out of the way. But I have to move when the zombie bartender starts wiping down the surface around me.

  M joins me, and we’re watching the proceedings, along with a few other creatures of the night. I’ve got a bottle in hand, an empty that the zombie bartender missed, just in case.

  “Everything cool?” I ask M, and she smiles, and I imagine the cigarette girl and Tommy are on a bus for the coast. Good luck to them.

  “Nice bit of entertainment,” she observes, and I beam.

  The Fed only has eyes for the singer and doesn’t seem to notice the whole place falling into an uproar around him. The singer has moved to sit at the edge of his table, still crooning, and twining a strand of his hair around her finger. She’s somehow gotten a drink in her hand and offers it to the Fed, who takes a grateful, enamored sip. We won’t have to worry about him for the rest of the evening.

  “You know she’s a siren, yeah?” M says, watching this play out.

  “I sure do,” I say.

  She grins. “And that I wouldn’t trust that drink as far as I could spit it?”

  “Oh, I know.” The Fed’s sipping down his bootleg whiskey like he’s in heaven and thinking the siren’s singing just for him.

  “He wasn’t going to cause any trouble, you know,” she says. “Not tonight, anyway.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” She just shakes her head.

  One of the heavies slams up against the bar, and I crack the bottle over his head because it’s a classic move and I can’t resist. The bottle breaks, pieces of glass rain down like bells, and the lunk of a guy slides to the floor, unconscious. Very satisfying.

  There’s a wrestling mob in the middle of Blue Moon now, accompanied by otherworldly growls, and a few more people seem to be sporting fur than did before, and some of those fangs might be dripping blood now, and it’s a bit more than I’d anticipated, and I’m thinking it’s time to get M out of here.

  Then, a glass chiming like the sound of icicles rings over it all. The sound should be subtle, but it’s rattling, and the whole place pauses, time stopping. The fistfights cease, the punches stop landing, chairs are raised over heads but don’t come down, and everyone turns to the beaded curtain. A woman stands there, pushing back the strings of beads with an ebony cigarette holder, studying the place through long lashes. She’s wearing a red silk dress like second skin, her hip cocked out, arms crossed, and she’s got a thing about her, like once you see her you can’t look past her. And once she sees you, you’re trapped because she knows everything about you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

  And everyone, even the singer, even Anthony, even me, looks away, chagrined, knowing we’ve stepped out of bounds. Everyone looks away but the Fed, who’s put his face down on the table and seems to be weeping, and M, who looks right back at her.

  It’s all over. At some signal, the gorilla bouncer and a couple of his buddies wade in and start throwing people out, including Anthony and his boys. The gangster is shouting that he doesn’t know what happened and he had nothing to do with it, but it doesn’t matter. He never even notices that his kid Tommy is gone. When he does notice, he might even figure out that me and M had something to do with it. But he won’t be able to do a thing about it. Besides, there’s a hundred kids where Tommy came from and revenge isn’t good for business.

  Once the trouble is gone, the waiters rush in to sweep up glass and set tables upright, and I realize why I’ve had such a hard time keeping track—there are three, identical triplets or something else. They move in a coordinated routine without speaking, like they can read each other’s minds, zipping through the place, so efficient because they can do triple the work. How do you like that?

  Across the tables and past the waiters cleaning up broken glasses and spilled drinks, the woman in red meets M’s gaze, and a long moment passes. I hold my breath and wait, heart thudding, because I don’t know what’s going to happen, how this is going to play out, who’s going to look away first and what it’ll mean. All M wants to know: Will Gigi talk to her? Gigi isn’t giving anything away.

  Gigi looks behind her, to a handful of people who troop out of the back room as she holds the curtain aside. Men in suits, but none of them are goons, they’re all fine businessmen in tailored jackets, expensive handkerchiefs peeping out of front pockets, rosebuds nestled on lapels. On their arms walk beautiful women with perfectly painted faces, flappers in short dresses and ropes of pearls, walking on high heels, looking bored and superior. Kept, I think, not hired, because they cling a little too desperately to their beaus’ arms, as if they might fall off if they’re not careful. And this, I think, is why M is self-employed.

  We’re not kept. We work for our place, and we do not have to cling.

  Then the woman in red, Gigi, nods, and M nods back, and at the same time they turn away, the one retreating back behind the curtain, M looking around for her chair. Right around us, the chairs and tables are knocked over, and we stand there like a couple of rowboats gone adrift. I wave to a waiter, who runs over and sets a table and a couple of chairs upright, wipes them down, and even finds a little vase of silk flowers to put in the middle of it.

  We sink down into the chairs at our table and lean close to talk.

  “What’s it mean?” I say.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She going to talk to you or not?”

  “I don’t know.” She says it calmly, like it doesn’t matter, and maybe it doesn’t. This was a long shot to start with.

  “She’s playing with you, making you wait. She thinks she’s better than you, and this is how she proves it.”

  “If she has to prove it, she knows she ain’t.”

  “How long are we waiting?” I’m impatient. We’ve been here too long already, and I have this vision of Anthony and his boys, or his remaining boys rather, waiting outside for us, to give us one of those little talks. M’s got her tricks and we’ll walk away, but Anthony’s got his tricks too, and I worry that one of these days M’s won’t be enough. I have to see that day before it comes, and I worry that I won’t.

  “A little while longer,” she says. “I thought you liked her.” She nods at the singer, who’s back, and M is right, the woman is beautiful and her voice is ringing, and couples are back to dancing on the floor like nothing’s wrong because fights break out all the time in a place like this, it’s part of the reason people come here. I also notice: The Fed is gone, probably thrown out with the rest of the mob. I hope he’s too trashed to remember Blue Moon or any of the
rest of us.

  We’ve been here too long.

  “It’s just one beautiful girl on one night,” I say. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.” She frowns, and I raise my brow at her. “I thought I was looking after you,” she says.

  “That’s right, you are.”

  A waiter comes over. Either the first or one of his brothers, I can’t guess. I don’t know if it’s a trick, if there’s a reason for it, some con Gigi runs where she needs a pair of identical triplets waiting tables, but it wouldn’t surprise me. I spend a few minutes thinking about it and what I would do with identical triplets working for me. M would have some ideas if I ask her about it.

  But the waiter is talking to M, and I cock my ear to listen.

  “She’ll see you now, in the back, if you’ll come with me.”

  M turns to give me a look like I told you so and moves to push back from the table. I pick up my clutch and do likewise, when the waiter says, wincing apologetically, “I am sorry, it’s only Madame who may come with me.”

  How do you like that? I try to plan out the next few moments because there’s no way I’m letting M walk into that room without me.

  “Pauline is my best friend in the world,” M says, clearly shocked and offended. “We don’t go anywhere apart. We’re like sisters!”

  Not much like, I think, but that’s too long a story to tell. But M doesn’t have to tell the story because she’s batting her eyes at the guy, who’s clearly ready to fold. “Please, it won’t hurt a thing, I just know it.”

  The poor kid sighs. He knows he’s being duped but what can he do? “All right, all right. Both of you, come with me.”

  We pass through the beaded curtain, bits of glass chiming around us, bending the soft light into colors. The music outside is suddenly distant, like we’re in a whole other building, or a whole other world.

  Gigi lies back on a red velvet sofa, her smooth legs tucked up next to her. She frowns. “I only wish to speak to Madame.” Her tone is light, observational, but the waiter wilts.

  M launches in, “Oh, let Pauline stay, I promise you she won’t hurt a fly.” And butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, I swear to God.