All for a Story (16 page)

She took slow, measured steps across the room, aware of every eye observing her. It was a favorite line from
Pride and Prejudice
, when Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Bingley take a turn around the room to better show off their figures. The music was low and dramatic, the perfect score if this were a scene in a movie. She, the exotic unknown, and one of these men poised to succumb to her charms.

“Care to join us?”

The invitation came from a handsome, well-groomed model of a man. A touch of gray at his temples, a strong jaw, a suit expensive but not custom-tailored. He wore one ring with a dark stone —a garnet, perhaps —and another of pure gold with a Shriners emblem clearly visible in the firelight. It was in this hand that he held his drink, while the other gestured across the room, ordering her a — “Brandy?”

She nodded, agreeing to both, and settled on the far end of the vacated sofa. Why not indulge in a bit of a game? She needed fodder for next week’s column and proof that she could charm another man, should she ever need to do so. Deep in the corner of her mind, like a shadowy figure in fading film, she saw Max’s moonlike smile, but she pushed it aside.

Two other men, each wearing rings similar to that of the first, greeted her with easy smiles, their faces loosened by drink.

“We saw you earlier,” the first man said, returning with her drink and sitting down beside her. Not too close. “Don’t tell us your date has abandoned you.”

Monica took a dainty, alluring sip.

“We had a parting of opinions.”

“I think I’d go along with anything you say.” This from one of the other two, who leaned across from his own plush wingback chair to run his hand along the top of her leg. The gold of his ring glinted in the firelight.

“Then I guess I’ve been wasting my time.” She took another sip and waited for the alcohol to take effect. Once things became fuzzy enough, she could look at these guys and decide if any would be most worth her time. There were more important things than buying a girl a drink. There were dinners, furs, perfume . . . In the meantime, his hand was on her leg, his touch burning her to the bone, and she shifted beneath it, dislodging his grip.

If she’d offended him, he gave no indication. Not overtly, anyway, but when he settled back into his chair, he looked over the rim of his glass, and there was no mistaking the threat that lurked there. She would not invite another touch.

His companions laughed, including the man who first bought her the drink.

“Looks like my friend is out of luck for tonight,” he said, sending a silent toast. “The lady knows a lounge lizard when she sees one.”

“She sees three,” Monica said, glancing at each in turn. She coyly spun the drink within her glass and took a sip, waiting to see which would rise to the bait.

Two of them chuckled.

She let her gaze linger on the first man. “What’s your name, daddy?”

“Bernardo.”

She knew it wasn’t true, but she repeated it anyway. “Bernardo. Italian?”

“Perceptive.” His voice was rich and deep, his lips soft and full.

She took a drag on her cigarette, exhaled, and asked, “And your friends?”

“Prefer to remain anonymous, as I’m sure you can understand.”

In fact, it took a minute for her to understand. She was heady from the smoke, and though she’d had only a few sips of alcohol, it was strong. Quality, the kind only a select few were granted. Had she ordered her own drink, no doubt it would have been watered down. But this was every bit as good as the stuff in Edward Moore’s safety-deposit box. This was what people drank before the law, or what they drank in spite of the law.

She took another drink.

“Are you gangsters?” The boldness was kicking in. “I met a gangster once. Stared down the barrel of his gun. Well, not
his
gun. But a couple of his hired goons’.” She looked at the other two men with new understanding. “Say, you two aren’t the goons, are you?”

The cigarette and the drink fueled her bravado; if her instincts were correct, that facade would keep her safe. Here, there was no Max to hide behind.

“I’ve been wondering,” Bernardo said, “why it is a woman —lovely as you are —would choose to come into an establishment such as this unaccompanied. I find it disturbing.”

He spoke in a deep, measured tone matched perfectly to the cello in the background. Anybody just listening in might think he was being unfailingly polite. But then, they wouldn’t be privy to the black steel glint in his eyes.

“I just came in for a drink,” she said, working to keep the fear out of her voice. “And I like this place. It’s classy.”

He nodded in a way that took credit for the compliment. “You’ve been here before?”

“Once or twice.” They were warming up to each other, and with her silent consent, he gestured for another drink.

“With your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore.” She leaned back, comfortable. “Turns out he’s married.”

“No.” Bernardo leaned back too, relaxed enough to allow his suit jacket to fall to the side, revealing a hint of leather holster beneath it. “What is a man if he has no honor?”

His companions echoed in agreement.

“Or a woman, for that matter,” he continued. “May I ask you, Miss —”

“Monica.”

“Miss Monica, are you a woman of honor?”

She took a final drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the cut-glass dish on the small table to the side of the sofa. “So far as I know.”

“Then you can understand how I wish only to preserve that honor. A beautiful woman like you, in here alone, men might get the wrong idea.” He sent a withering glare to his cohort who had been guilty of such a misunderstanding.

“Are you saying I should leave?”

“I think that would be best, yes.”

“Then why do you keep ordering drinks for me?”

He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that somehow made her think of warm caramel. If she were to look for a new boyfriend, he might not be a bad choice. Handsome, protective, powerful. He obviously felt at home here, and for a moment, she did too. A man in a crisp white coat came with a tray of fresh drinks. These were not the same as she’d been drinking before, but tiny shot glasses filled with a dark liquor.

“Salute,”
Bernardo said, holding his aloft.

“Salute,”
they —his companions and Monica —answered. Following their example, she downed the drink in a single gulp, not fully realizing its licorice-like flavor until after she’d swallowed. It so happened that their drink coincided with the final notes of the song being played by the quartet, and they set their glasses down amid a smattering of applause.

“It’s a nice way to end an evening,” Bernardo said. “Am I right?”

“You’ve got it, daddy.” Monica licked the lingering liquor from her lips. His careful politeness kept shame at bay, and for that she was grateful, but his meaning couldn’t be more clear. “’Course it’s not quite that easy, for me at least. Like I said earlier, my date dumped me. He was my ride home.” She planted a hand on the cushion between them and leaned forward, knowing this angle worked the neckline of her dress to her advantage. After all, this guy might even have a limousine.

He appeared unfazed. “How were you planning to get home?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged the neckline that much wider. “There’s usually someone headed toward my side of town. A girl can usually find a ride.”

“I could give her a ride, boss.” This from the intrepid man who had touched her leg.

“You see?” Bernardo said. “This is exactly what I mean. Girls like you bring trouble to an establishment such as this. Bad enough we have to tiptoe around the Volstead; we shouldn’t be peddling flesh.”

Outrage churned within her, but she chose instead to feign a coy confusion.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Bernardo. I came in here for a drink. Nothing more. It’s a compliment to your place that a nice girl like me would come in here.”

“Who said it’s my place?”

Monica sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. “I’m a nice girl, Mr. Bernardo. Not a stupid one. You’d be surprised what I know and don’t know.”

Bernardo didn’t blink. Instead, he reached beneath his jacket, setting Monica’s heart on fire as she saw the iron glint of his gun in the firelight. Mother always said her mouth would get her into trouble. But Bernardo didn’t seem to have taken much offense to her words, as he produced not a gun but a sizable bundle of cash. He opened the golden clip and peeled two bills off the top.

“Cab fare.” He nodded to the man who’d touched her. “Go make the call. Get it here in five minutes.”

“I don’t need your money.” Not bad enough to confirm his suspicions. Her shoes were comfortable enough.

“Take it. We can forget this unpleasant conversation.”

He held out an amount that would have covered a fare halfway to New Jersey. The lingering liqueur turned sour in her mouth, but a sense of practicality won out. She took one of the bills, saying, “I don’t live far,” but stopped short of saying thank you. Hooded glances of the clandestine patrons burned the back of her neck, and if people were going to assume the worst, who was she to disappoint? She took Bernardo’s face in her hands, leaned forward, and placed a long, lingering kiss on his soft, powerful lips.

“I’m not what you think I am,” she whispered into his ear.

“Perhaps,” he whispered into hers, “I’m merely the first to notice.
Buona fortuna.
”

Don’t be afraid to make a mistake; your readers might like it.

WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST

IT WAS SEVEN O’CLOCK in the morning when Max arrived at the
Capitol Chatter
offices. The night’s darkness lurked outside the grimy windows as he typed up a dozen pages of scribbled notes and ideas, creating one coherent vision to be mimeographed and distributed when the staff assembled at nine. In truth, his message was a simple one; the scattered thoughts represented an attempt to keep his mind occupied over the weekend. Anything to chase away the image of the guy who had swept Monica away so effortlessly. That booming voice wrapped around her giggle had haunted him, taking his thoughts where they had no business going. Besides a brief visit to a dull church on Sunday morning, he’d spent two entire days with copies of every newspaper available, reading articles, studying advertisements, ascertaining tone and intent. Politics, crime, freakish events —sometimes all represented in a single story. He looked for joy, encouragement, faith, and found little.

The drafting of a letter to Sister Aimee occupied much of Sunday evening, asking her for prayer and advice in his venture. And then a sleepless night culminating in the predawn boarding of a streetcar.

The only sound was the spinning of the drum of the mimeograph machine, and he felt a great deal of satisfaction with each printed page that rolled out from underneath it. Here was a plan —
his
plan, divinely inspired and, hopefully, faithfully implemented.

Thomas Harper Jr. was, characteristically, the first to arrive, bringing with him a poster-board chart with lots of numbers and a big red line. This he set on a wobbly easel that seemed to maintain its balance in deference to the severity of his gaze.

Zelda Ovenoff came next, bringing with her a large white paper bag blotched with the telltale grease stains of doughnuts.

“Good morning, Mr. Moore, Mr. Harper. I’ll make coffee.”

It was the first time Max had seen her since that morning in Uncle Edward’s —his —home, and she bustled about with the same controlled efficiency. This time, though, he could clearly see the beloved woman in the photograph beneath the animated janitress.

“Thank you, Zelda,” he said, perhaps more tenderly than he ought, as she shot him a confused, guarded look.

“You have good news for us, I hope, Mr. Moore?”

“I hope so too.”

She granted him a quick nod before taking the office’s electric percolator to be filled, nearly colliding with Tony Manarola as she left.

“Hey,” Tony said to the exiting Zelda, “where’s the fire?” Then, turning to see Max in the doorway, said, “Sorry, kid.”

“You know about that?” He searched his mind, trying to
remember if he’d told anybody about the fire that claimed the lives of his parents, but as far as he knew, only Mr. Bolling would have access to those details, and it was doubtful Uncle Edward had ever shared such a matter of personal tragedy.

Tony tapped his nose. “You don’t just let someone walk into your family without doin’ a little checkin’ up, if you know what I mean.”

“I guess I should be honored.”

Tony shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

The office door opened again, this time by a red-cheeked Trevor, who graciously held it for the returning Zelda.

“Such a good boy,” she said, resting a free hand against his cheek as she passed.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Max asked with a quick glance at the clock.

“It’ll be there later. This is my science hour, anyway. Mr. Tottle won’t even know I’m gone.”

Max resisted the urge to tell him that he simply wasn’t needed here today. There’d be no errands, no messages, no mail to deliver or telegraphs to send. But the boy had already hung his patched-at-the-elbow coat on the peg right beside Max’s own, so he simply clapped Trevor on the back and solicited a promise to be back on school grounds before lunch.