Ingenue (19 page)

Vera switched off the safety on the gun.

Something shifted in Carlito’s eyes; he knew how serious she was. He looked over her shoulder at one of the men. “Okay, Eddie—you go and untie him.”

Vera kept the gun trained on Carlito while a rotund bald man walked to the corner of the restaurant by the men’s room. He opened a heavy wooden door to reveal a tiny closet. In with the brooms and mops was Evan, tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. He had a black eye and a scrape on one cheek.

Vera gasped.

Gag removed and ropes untied, Evan stumbled a little as he stood and took in the sight of his ex-bandmate’s little sister pointing a gun at the son of one of the most powerful Mob bosses in Chicago. “Oh my oh my oh my,” Evan said.

Vera didn’t move the gun from its aim at Carlito’s head. “Stand up. You’re taking a walk with us.” Carlito got to his feet, and Vera pushed the pistol into his back. The room was completely silent—thugs were standing and sitting, awaiting Vera’s next move. “No
one
follows us. Unless you want to explain Carlito’s death to his dad.”

The men backed against the walls, clearing a space so Carlito and Vera could walk out of the steakhouse with Evan behind them.

Outside, Vera led Carlito to a black phone booth. “Call us a cab.”

Carlito gritted his teeth. “I’m going to enjoy cutting that smug smile off your face.”

Vera cocked the pistol’s hammer. “Do it!”

He fished a nickel from his pocket and talked to an operator, and eventually a Checker cab pulled up at the curb.

Vera stood between Evan and Carlito, her right hand inconspicuously pushing the gun into Carlito’s spine. “Where you off to?” the balding cabby asked.

“Just a minute,” Evan said. He reached over to pat Carlito on the shoulder, then opened the door of the cab. “Thanks so much for taking us out after the show tonight, boss.” Evan climbed into the car.

“And offering to pay for our ride home!” Vera said with a smile. “That was just so sweet of you.”

Carlito turned his dark glare onto Vera.

She prodded him again with the gun. “About ten dollars should do it.”

“Ma’am, unless you live in New Jersey—” the cabby began.

“Ten dollars,”
Vera said again.

Carlito fumbled around in his pocket, muttering something that sounded like “dismember your whole family,” then handed Vera the cash.

“Thanks, hon,” Vera said. She slowly took the gun away from his back and flattened it against her thigh. “It’s always nice to see old friends—sorry to cut this short.”

Vera climbed into the cab next to Evan. “Just drive, please,” Evan said to the driver.

As the cab took off, Vera looked out the window and saw Carlito staring after them. Once they were far enough away so that he was just a speck in the distance, she felt her entire body tremble. She leaned against the sticky brown seat, breathing hard.

Evan pulled her into his arms. “It’s all right, Vera, we’re all right.”

She dug her head hard into his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re okay. When I came out of Connie’s today and you were—”

“It’s okay.” His hand smoothed her hair. “I was so worried they might have someone waiting for you, too. Not that they would’ve been able to do anything.” He gave a low whistle. “I always knew you were smoking, Vera, but I didn’t realize you were packing heat.”

She lightly touched the dark bruise around his eye. “You’re hurt.”

He covered her hand with his. “
I’m fine
, thanks to you.” He moved her hand so that her palm skimmed his lips. “Really, thank you.” Then he chuckled. “So I’m your boyfriend? That’s what you told Carlito.”

“Well, you told your band at the Cotton Club that I’m your girl.”

She could feel his breath on her cheek. “I do talk about you an awful lot. I can’t help myself.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “I think I’m in love with you, Vera,” he said, the words rushing out. “Or at least … in a whole lotta like.”

Vera couldn’t help it—she was glowing. But there would be time for canoodling later. Right now, she had to focus. “Evan, I’m in a whole lotta like with you, too. But we need to find my brother now. You heard what Carlito said—he could get Jerome and Gloria anytime he wants. I don’t think he was bluffing.”

“Turns out I may have an idea about that,” Evan said.

“You’ve got a lead?” Vera said. “Well, don’t keep it to yourself—spill!”

“When I was in that closet, that scrawny girl, Maude, took pity on me. When Carlito and his guys were out, she talked the boys into letting her feed me.”

“She fed you?” Vera felt a weird pang of jealousy. “Put food in your mouth?”

“Not exactly. She brought me a steak sandwich and untied my hand so I could eat. And then while I ate, she talked up a storm at me. I tell you, it was like a different kind of torture.”

Vera laughed. “I remember her.”

“Anyway, she wanted to know if I’d ever met one of Gloria’s old friends—this girl Clara—at the Green Mill. Seems Maude had bumped into Clara at a party here in New York. And she was mad because Clara hadn’t mentioned she’d appeared in Maude’s favorite magazine.”

“Which is?”

“Some rag about flappers in New York called the
Manhattanite
. Apparently somebody wrote about how Clara is damaged goods and how she should stay in Brooklyn Heights.”

“Really? Did Clara know where Gloria was?”

“Maude didn’t really discuss that with me. I was done eating, so she tied my hand back up and took her bag-o’-bones self and her magazine back outside.”

But simply knowing that Clara lived in Brooklyn Heights wasn’t much to go on. “Did you get her last name? Or where exactly she lives?”

Evan frowned. “Vera, I was in a closet. Tied up. Blind.”

“Okay, okay—I hear you.” Vera sighed with relief. Maybe everything would work out. “Let’s get a copy of this
Manhattanite
magazine.”

Evan put his arm around her shoulder. “You’re not tired after all that? You’re amazing.”

Before she knew it, he’d leaned in and kissed her. At first her eyes went wide with surprise, but then she closed them and enjoyed the moment. For a few seconds, Jerome, Gloria, Carlito, even the mysterious assassin—all of it left her mind. Her whole world was Evan’s lips.

Evan pulled back. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since that day in Central Park,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers.

She couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah? I’ve been wanting you to do that ever since before we left Chicago.” She looked back in the direction of the steakhouse. “I guess we’ll have time to do
more
of that after we find Jerome and Gloria. If we find them.”

Evan squeezed her hand. “We will, Vera, don’t worry.”

“Thanks.” She kissed him again. “And, Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re pretty amazing, too.”

GLORIA

Gloria tried in vain to close her suitcase.

She opened the case again and pulled out her tattered day dresses, leaving the pricier garments she’d brought from Chicago: a beaded black Chanel dress, a silky green blouse from Paris that matched her eyes exactly, a headband made entirely of artfully intertwined pearls.

She wadded the cheaper dresses in an empty record crate at her feet. All the 78s and the Victrola were with Jerome, wherever he was staying—along with his share of the rent. Even with the gig at the Opera House, she couldn’t afford this apartment on her own. The money Jerome had left her would get her—at most—a room at a boardinghouse, like the one they’d stayed in when they first got to the city, before they found this place. Not that she’d be safe here even if she
could
afford it.

What had she been thinking, responding to that flyer? “Here I am.” Such a dumb move. Her mother might have suspected she was in New York, but there was no way she could pay someone to go around town putting up flyers. She didn’t have the money—she had been cut off by Gloria’s father. And since new flyers kept turning up, the possibility of their being linked to Bastian had been eliminated.

So now Gloria was leaving. Her only hope was that by the time Carlito sent his goons, she would already be safely set up somewhere else.

Someone knocked on the door.

Gloria’s heart fluttered. Who could it be? Jerome had a key, and anyway, he wasn’t coming back.

Carlito!

The knocking came again, this time hard enough to rattle the door in its frame. Gloria looked frantically around the apartment for a place to hide.

Maybe she could just sit here quietly and they would go away. She silently sat on a chair, watching the door. If she could wait them out, she could escape the back way. Not that the flimsy lock would stop a determined person for long—

The door wasn’t locked.

She stood up. Maybe she could shoot the bolt home without the thugs on the other side noticing. Maybe she—

The doorknob turned.

Gloria’s breath caught in her throat, her feet frozen to the floor.

The door swung open, and her fears were confirmed: Two burly black men in blue boilersuits stood outside, their bulk completely filling the doorway. One man had close-cut hair, while the other was bald. The bald one crossed his muscular arms and looked down at Gloria.

“So you been here all this time?” he said in a deep baritone.

The other one said, “You know why we’re here.”

Gloria let out a shaky breath. She put her hands out, palms up. “I will go peacefully,” she said. “I am ready for the worst.”

Both men stared at her as if she were a crazy person, and the one who had hair looked as if he was trying to stifle a laugh.

“Uh, lady,” the bald one said, “we’re just here for the piano.”

Gloria blinked, then thought back to the note Jerome had written to her:
A few of my buddies will be by later to move the piano and get my stuff
. She had completely forgotten.

She jumped up and pulled the door open wider. “Sorry about that. I was, uh, expecting someone else.”

The men walked over to the piano, the bald one pushing a dolly in from the hallway. Gloria stood back by the kitchen table. “Do you two want some water, or maybe some coffee?”

Maybe she could get some information about where Jerome was staying. She was still angry with him, of course—the only words they’d exchanged at the Opera House since he’d left had been spiteful ones. But she couldn’t help wanting to know where he was, whether he was all right.

Whether he missed her.

The men shook their heads. “Nah, we’re fine. We just need to get this downstairs.” They took a few minutes to wrap the piano in thick gray blankets and then tipped it sideways. There was a soft confusion of chords. They strapped it to the dolly, tipped it back, and rolled it toward the door.

“So, where exactly are you taking this thing?” she asked. “Not too far, I hope. It looks heavy!”

The bald one glanced back. “We’ll be okay.”

Gloria followed the men out of the apartment, leaving the door open. They were easing the piano down the stairs gently, taking the steps one at a time. She leaned over the railing. “Could you please tell me where Jerome is staying?” she called. “I just want to know how he’s doing.”

The bald one grunted as he continued to step carefully backward down the stairs. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about Jerome.”

The men turned the piano on the landing and moved out of sight.

Jerome had told his friends not to tell her where he was? What baloney! She dashed back into the apartment and donned her floppy hat and coat. Then she hurried down the back stairway, crossed the tiny lobby before the men with the piano had reached it, and, for the first time ever, went out the front door.

A large white truck was parked outside with
RON’S MOVERS
painted in bold letters across the side. The back of the truck was open and a ramp was extended, awaiting Jerome’s piano. Without pausing, Gloria broke into a gallop and ran up the ramp.

Phew!
There were plenty of places to hide in here: The truck was packed with stuff. She pushed past a couple of boxes and a lamp and found a big black chest. She crawled inside, then folded up her floppy hat and used it to prop open the lid of the chest.

A moment later, the truck sagged on its springs and she heard the men grunting as they pushed the piano up the ramp.

“That Jane back there was
crazy
,” one of them said. “A real dewdrop.” The other just laughed. Gloria heard the heavy tread of boots, a clatter as the ramp was unhooked and slid into the truck, and then the closing of the truck’s doors.

After what felt like an eternity (though it had probably only been twenty minutes), the truck stopped. The back doors opened and the men climbed inside. “Just a little more elbow grease and we’ll be done,” one said. They rolled the piano down the ramp.

When she could no longer hear their voices, Gloria climbed out. There was no one around; the coast was clear.

She hopped to the sidewalk and adjusted her dress. They’d gone much deeper into Harlem than she had ever ventured—152nd Street and St. Nicholas Place. Unlike on her street, where elderly men and women sat on chairs outside their buildings, this block was completely deserted.

In front of her was a gray boardinghouse with sagging steps and a wooden stoop that sorely needed a new paint job. This must be the place.

Gloria pushed open the door and found a foyer as old and dirty as the house’s exterior. There were cracks in the ceiling and the faint odor of mothballs. A scruffy old cat that looked as gray and dirty as the rug on the floor let out a faint meow.

A middle-aged black woman sat behind a desk, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes narrowed. “You get lost?”

Gloria stood tall. “I sincerely hope not,” she said in the deep voice she’d once used to mimic her teachers at Laurelton Prep. “I’m looking for a Jerome Johnson. He used to work at my club downtown, and our till is eighteen dollars short. This is the address we have on file for him.”

It was the best story she’d been able to come up with while crouched in the back of the moving van. Her now-dirty day dress wasn’t the right attire for a club manager, but she couldn’t worry about that.

The woman barely shrugged. “He’s in Five F, go on up.”

Gloria hadn’t expected it to be
that
easy. As she made her way tentatively up the stairs, she worried that she would bump into the movers. But she didn’t hear them until the last flight. She could hear the dolly’s rusty wheels rolling down the hallway.

She peeked around the corner. The men had stopped outside an unvarnished door marked 5F and knocked. It opened, but Gloria couldn’t see whom they were talking to.

Whoever it was stepped out into the hall, and Gloria nearly fell over: It wasn’t Jerome.

It was a black girl her own age.

She was pretty, with big brown eyes and a short burst of curly dark hair. Her sleeveless canary-yellow dress was cheap, but a girl with her slim figure and light brown skin would have looked good in anything.

“If you could just put it against the right wall, that would be great,” the girl said.

“Sure thing, Marcie,” one of the movers said.

“He’ll be back at six,” the girl said.

The men rolled the piano into the apartment and Marcie followed, shutting the door behind her.

Where had Jerome met this Marcie woman? And how could he have found her in the few days since he’d moved out? He worked fast. Or maybe Marcie was the reason he’d left in the first place.

A short, hiccupping sob escaped Gloria’s lips as she stomped down the stairs. She didn’t glance at the woman behind the front desk as she burst out the door and onto the street. She staggered down the block and eventually came upon a subway station.

Once she was seated on a bench, waiting for a downtown train, she began to cry. She had barely faced the fact that she and Jerome had broken up, and he’d already found someone else.

Gloria’s relationship with Jerome—her love for him, the way he’d taught her to sing, how she had come into her own because of him—was the most important one she’d ever had. It mattered more than her relationship with her father and mother. And certainly more than her relationship with Lorraine, or with Clara, or even with Marcus—they were all only friends.

But with Jerome there was heat. There was passion. Even when they were angry with each other, or when money was tight, she’d always figured she and Jerome had their love. And that it would always keep them together.

But clearly that wasn’t how Jerome felt.

Maybe he was happier now. He would never have to hide his relationship with Marcie or feel awkward about introducing her to his friends. He’d gotten what he wanted—someone who understood him in a way Gloria never could.

She boarded the train and was glad to find the car practically empty.

Why had Jerome given up on her so fast?

As she turned the corner toward her old apartment, she saw three police cars parked along the curb. The street was crowded with people who’d come out to see what the ruckus was all about. Two uniformed officers were standing on the stoop, talking to her frazzled-looking landlord.

The flyers! She’d completely forgotten.

It had never entered her mind that the police could have been behind the flyers. But it made sense: The police had figured out that she killed Tony and had used the flyers as a way to lure her into their clutches.

She turned on her heel and walked back the way she’d come.

How could she have been so stupid? The charade she’d used to get into her apartment had not only allowed her to live secretly with Jerome—it had helped hide her from the police.

She and Jerome had been so careful for months, going through such complicated ruses, using fake names and never telling their address to prospective employers, never entering or leaving the apartment together.

And now, thanks to Gloria, all of that had been in vain.

The Lost Girl had finally been found.