by Elyse Lortz
Keane writhed as a sudden blast of excruciating pain burst through his shoulder, interrupting his thought as efficiently as would a bullet.
A bullet.
He had only fired one bullet; one skilled squeeze to the trigger that had pushed her over the edge, as soundly as if he had physically shoved her.
BANG!
He could feel everything about that moment as it surged upon him through another wave of sickening pain. The pistol had been cold in his hand, the trigger but a thin slip of metal beneath his forefinger. There had been little kickback from the weapon, but it was enough—more than enough—to jerk his mind to the reality of his actions. A thin yelp echoed through the air, followed by an overpowering splash. Everything in him—every instinct he had accumulated and honed during the war—screamed for him to jump off that bridge after her. He could swim. Of course he could swim. It had become second nature after all those years of training.
And yet he did nothing.
No, he did worse than nothing. He stood there. He stood there like those young men who refused to march into the swarm of bullets, though they already wore the uniform. He stood on the deck, cowering from a fate that was possible, but not sealed above his head. Yes, he stood there as the two men cackled and patted his shoulder before they drove off. And then he too left. Alone.
But hadn’t he done all he could to ensure her protection? Not entirely. He had tried to prove himself; shooting the pins out of her hair. She hadn’t flinched. Of course she hadn’t. She had trusted him. And yet, she had not rebuked his boldness when he kissed her. No powerful slap sent him staggering back to that pit from whence the other men came.
Virtue is always admirable to the foolish, and fear never coveted by the good.
KEANE AWOKE. THAT was a miracle itself, for no one can awaken without first sleeping. Now there was a miracle.
He had slept.
It took a bit of effort to tug his mind out of the much needed rest enough to realise the room was dark. Or, if not dark, then dim. The sealed curtains were no longer illuminated by the sun’s rays, but merely glowed a tired amber. Even the pain in his shoulder had subsided into a somewhat more bearable stiffness. Keane carefully propped his back against the headboard and glanced at his watch. A few grains of satisfaction multiplied into a running stream as he realised he had been able to enjoy more than five hours of uninterrupted rest. A solid seven hours, in fact. Seven long, luxurious hours of the purest sleep known to man.
Keane ran a hand through his unruly waves of hair, allowing his fingers to then detour along his jaw, only to find it marginally concealed beneath a rough stubble. When was the last shaved? That morning? No, not that morning. He had gone to the casino again that morning in a vain attempt to lose some of his earnings. Keane slowly pulled his frame upright and sat along the edge of the bed, relieved when the action did not cause any new spasms in his shoulder. He took his time stretching all the knots out of his weary muscles. How glorious it felt to be free of age’s spindly grasp.
A few hours later, after a long, hot bath, not to mention a shave and hot towel from the hotel’s barber, Keane felt considerably relieved of his mortal frailties and ready to endure however many hours of celebratory life as his infamous host found necessary. Stuffing the pockets of his new suit with a generous amount of paper bills and cartons of cigarettes, he climbed into the first taxi that presented itself and relaxed into the leather seats. Through the waning light, he squinted at the passing surroundings in the event he may need to drive or—heaven forbid—lead a harrowing escape from the realm of armed fools and gambling simpletons. It was a never ending battle, to which Keane had become incredibly bored.
The long, gravel path led upwards toward a towering mansion, which had been seemingly built up from the ground by God’s own hand. Enormous decorations of marble outlined the house as pillars stolen from the minds and hearts of the Greeks. Overpowering blasts of music exploded through the cool air. Keane recognised the tune. (A similar was in his own collection; a purchase of Lawrence’s.) To arrive at the heart of the party itself, one was required to enter an elegant foyer and lead into the back gardens. A series of tables groaned beneath platters of meats, fruits, cakes, sandwiches, wines, hard liquors, lemonade, and a few pyramids of cigarette cartons still in their packaging. A well-stocked band played energetically in one corner of the garden; creating the music, rather than merely presenting it through a phonograph’s flat mimicry. Lights had been strung from polls until the entire expanse was illuminated with their gentle glow.
It did not take long to notice how the guests had divided themselves into separate groups, with only a dozen or so flitting about like lost butterflies. Many of the females were much too young to be entirely distinguishable from those sauntering about in similar bright dresses that were both too high and too low, which, he supposed, was the point. Keane was able to spot a few faces he recognised from the casino, but the majority of the guests were no more than figures whirling about the world in one, enormous, purposeless moment. He began with the pulsating conversations of the young things; nodding vaguely at ideas that were certainly modern, but not quite distasteful to his pallet. Many of the subjects included the ever popular debate of a woman’s inclusion into the ever changing world, something he agreed with on the whole. Perhaps a decade ago he might have been more leery of sharing such new opinions; especially with people half, if not a third of his age. But that had changed, hadn’t it?
Seven years before.
When he had finished his second cocktail in their boisterous presence, Keane ambled on toward the scotch-drinking businessmen. Within a matter of painful minutes, he found himself sufficiently aware of the miraculous recovery of the country’s various markets. Having learned enough about the stocks themselves to become quite sufficient in the world of investments, he then moved onto the next group. Then the one after that. Then the next. Soon he discovered he had explored all of the party’s nations except for the handful of young men smoking along the far wall of the house. Perfect. He could use a good smoke.
Keane tugged a package of cigarettes from his pocket, casually set one in his mouth, and approached the soft, sparse sentences passed between the unsociable of sociables. Each suit had been carefully tailored to its owner’s frame, which ranged from tall and stocky to a youthful figure, who, even with a hat, scarcely rose as high as Keane’s shoulder. It was by the latter of these he stationed himself, his back digging into the mansion’s brick exterior to prop up the rest of his long form. Puff by puff, draw by draw, the cigarette grew smaller between his fingers until he had no choice but to grind it beneath his heel. Before he could reach for a fresh one; however, an open case was offered to him. He took one gratefully, lit it, and glanced down at the considerably smaller guest next to him, who was busy on their own cigarette. A silence settled between them; comfortable, yet enshrouded in a tense combination of nerves. It was the other who first gave in to the fleeting glimpse of conversation.
“Strange, isn’t it?” The voice was quiet—scarcely carried beyond the smoke—but bore none of the rough traces one might expect. Keane’s match paused just before meeting the end of yet another cigarette.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t you think it strange, all this for a few hours? A man with all that money would spend it on a battalion of top of the line cars. Not this.” The frustrated character waved a hand out toward the tittering masses, as if to make the senseless words somehow more meaningful. “I mean, why a party of all things? Why not something more substantial? More sustainable?” Keane exhaled thoughtfully; a long, soft billow of white smoke spiriting upwards toward the heavenly stars. Some say the balls of hot air worked miracles, but he often thought the miracle was that things of such beauty and might would stay to illuminate their inconsequential, fleeting lives.
“I suppose . . . ” He took another draw, releasing it more leisurely than the last. “I suppose there are those who enjoy the company of others; overzealous though they may be. So
me might even find the lifestyle of an extravert necessary to their existence. After all, not everyone can be so dedicated to hidden glories of life. Wouldn’t you agree, Lawrence?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SOMETHING HAPPENED when he said my name, something I did not expect. Every inch of me was split between pounding my knuckles into that Roman nose of his or embracing him in some utterly feminine attempt to drain myself of the fear I had endured for the past several days. In the end I did neither of these, settling the difference by pulling the cigarette case out of my pocket and thrusting it mightily into his hands. He did not open it and enjoy its restocked contents, but then, I never thought he would. For all his blustering and bellowing about my own curiosity, his was often just as fierce. The silver glimmered between his fingers as he turned it over and over in his large hands; each time pausing to rub his thumb over the obvious dent defacing the front cover.
“Never was I so thankful for your excellent marksmanship.” I muttered shakily. “You were right. You didn’t miss.” Rather than make some vain comment about him never missing or that he was in the war, after all, Keane held his precious cigarette case towards one of the overhead lights and grunted softly.
“I was a bit off to the right, I believe.” I chuckled, a dry, nervous noise.
“I didn’t give a damn about perfection, just so long as that bullet hit the case and not me. However, when you shoved that heavy thing in my dress—”
“—Yes, I imagine that was a surprise. You didn’t keep the bullet, did you?”
“Not unless you want to go swimming in that river.” Keane crushed out his cigarette and reached for another.
“God, no. I would have demanded you destroy it, if you had.”
“Demanded? My, what strong words. Thank God I can swim with the same strength, or else you might have found yourself ‘groping for trout in a particular river’.” Even above the roaring music and increasingly intoxicated crowd, I couldn’t miss that rich chuckle floating just above my ear.
“So you enjoyed that Measure for Measure bit? I thought you would.” It was my turn to smile.
“I must admit it took me a second to realise why you chose that particular play, but mentioning Claudio was a helpful addition. At least then I didn’t think you had gone completely mad.”
“Ah, so you think I am still mad then?”
“Are any of us really sane? Besides, ‘we’re all mad here’.” Keane paused a moment to enjoy a firm draw of his cigarette before nodding thoughtfully.
“So Lewis Carrol’s cat has returned, has it? He’s quite right, though. Sanity is only a dilution created by the vain to describe those who follow their morals, and not their pocketbook.” Another puff of smoke dwindled lazily from my companion’s slightly parted lips before his eyes flickered away from that nostalgic glimmer and into the alert shards of ice. “I don’t believe I asked what brought you here, did I?”
“No, you didn’t, but I can answer that simple enough. I was looking for you. It took a few visits to that casino—calm down, Keane. For heaven’s sake, you look as though I just admitted to some scandalous affair. I do appreciate your gentlemanly concern, but it is 1947, after all. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. It didn’t take much really. I just had to ask around at the gambling tables about the tall man exceptional at craps. That took me to several people, but it was Guy Brooks who eventually led me here. You left quite an impression on that Ruby woman, by the way.” Keane stood a little straighter against the brick wall.
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did. Should I be the one inquiring about some illicit affairs? No? Well nevermind then.” I leaned back against the house, leaving a respectable amount of space between our shoulders. All the other guests were content demolishing the feast laid out on the tables, with an unwavering attention to the alcohol. At some point, Keane excused himself and strode off toward the buzzing masses. He eventually returned with two sparkling glasses.
“Scotch and water.” He announced, carefully handing the first to me before taking a sip of the other. If there was one thing I had learned about liquor from my several years with the man, it was that water could enhance the flavour of even the most abhorrent scotch, and, when drunk in small sips, might even rival Keane’s madeira back in Devon. This scotch, though arguably one of the finest I had ever tasted, still did not hold the sweetness or flavor of that exotic wine. I set my glass on a window ledge lingering between Keane and I.
“So, what made you come here? I doubt we will be able to find those photographs tonight. And even if we did, what would we do with them? We could hardly sneak them away beneath our jackets, or shove them in our socks.” Another chuckle floated through the air.
“How I have missed your vivid imagination, Lawrence. No, I hadn’t made any tonight. However, if we could find an excuse to go into the rooms, that might be enough for a temporary search.” I lifted my drink again, pausing uncomfortably before the rim even reached my lips.
“Keane, I may have the perfect excuse. When do you wish to act?”
“I believe sooner, rather than later. Why? What are you concocting in that infamous brain of yours.”
“In your absence, I have spent the last several hours drinking cups of watered-down tea, a rather abhorrent cup of coffee, and now some excellent scotch. There comes a time when a human being’s anatomy can not consume any more fluids without doing something about those already in their system.” I was determined to sound perfectly at ease with the situation, but, as a woman disguised as a man, using the facilities was the absolute last thing I wished to do.
“Of course. Yes. I see your point.” Keane glanced at my suit—or rather one of his suits tailored for the occasion—and the battle between gentlemanly humility and immediate necessity began. “I suppose, if you would take care of that, . . . er . . . predicament, I could just look through the other rooms for that material. That seems reasonable considering the . . . that is, the circumstances dictate we must . . .” Rather than finishing the jumbled strings of words, my companion downed the rest of his drink before leading me toward the ornate entrance.
As I rather cursely explained the situation to one of the uniformed servants wandering the halls, I caught Keane slipping through a pair of sturdy oak doors centering the hall. Making a mental note of the exact placement of the doors—as well as the directions of the lavatory—I sped off in steady strides to fulfill my own mission.
It was not long before I finished, washed my hands, and struck out again toward the hall. I found the more glamorous the rooms became, the more my mind wandered. Everything was new, be it a replacement for an original piece or just released to the public markets. Even the ominous oil paintings—no doubt older than the owner himself—still appeared incredibly bright and vivid. So enchanted was the ornate interior, had I not come to my senses once more, the search for Keane might have been entirely forgotten. The polished knobs were eerily cool in my hands as I eased myself into a room that largely resembled an extravagant lounge that had been casually dropped in the center of a study. As the doors clicked behind me, I found myself staring at my companion. Blatantly. His long, slender form had been casually draped onto the rolled arm of a sofa. The gaudily fashionable hat he had been wearing lay beside him, the dark brim a shocking contrast to the pale green. In his fingers dangled a glass of cut crystal; half filled with some dark liquor I did not recognise. I was about to hiss something sharp—and no doubt insulting—when there was a soft squeak to my left. A single step. A squeak. A blink. A flash like that of a camera. And then I was smacked in the face by the exact copy of those photographs; grey shapes and shades smeared across hundreds of newspapers. Only, this was not a copy. This was the original. His balding head was level to mine, if perhaps a hair higher. The tell-tale signs of boxing had flattened his ears against his head, but, where most athletes were slim or heavily muscled, this man was round. Not fat. Round. His form was really quite agile, but his face was considerably circular with the lower half distort
ed by a pair of lips tightly drawn into a scowl. I pulled the loose threads of my thoughts together as best I could and nodded respectfully to the man: a man who had power over life and death.
“Good evening, Mr. Cohen.”
The mobster, a legend in every right, eyed me for what boiled into years of incarceration. His dark eyes dragged warily up and down my form for a weapon’s imprint. He was sceptical, but he had a right to be. Anyone who made a living spilling another man’s blood had to be careful. He could not afford to be overeager. That is, he ought to remain cautious, lest his business offices sink away from a half-dozen of casinos to a box six feet below our feet. At last his eyes returned to my face and the first, firm glimpse of a smile played at the edge of his mouth
“You got manners, kid. I like that. Any kid with some polish can’t be all bad. What’s your name?”
“Devon. Devon English.”
“Well, Devon, you’re welcome to take a seat by Leslie there. Go ahead and take your hat off too. You’d see better.” In the corner of my peripheral vision, Keane tensed, preparing to jump to my rescue at the moment the brim slipped from my head and a thick mop of hair dangled down to my chin. I did not know how Cohen would react to seeing a young woman galavanting about in a man’s altered suit. No doubt it would be something new. Perhaps he would even find it amusing. But he would not get the opportunity, for a mentor’s influence carries into the oddest of times, and, just as Eliza could not break from Higgin’s lessons ground into her skull, I could not escape Keane’s.
I pinched the brim of a fedora purchased the day before, and swept it theatrically toward the ground, exposing the masculine crop of my hair curled and pomaded to the finest male fashion.
Cohen’s amusement flared into a grin, but my own humor was not fulfilled until I noticed Keane’s left hand clinging to the material of his jacket. His grip did not lessen as the Los Angeles crime boss strode toward the doors.