Ingenue (21 page)

Hank appeared to be looking around for something. “Jerome and Gloria both listed this building as their address, right? But everyone we saw in the lobby was white. No way would the landlord let a colored boy live here. And from what the tenants were saying, it doesn’t sound like Gloria lives here, either.” He picked up a canvas bag he found on the floor and looked through it. “Aha!”

“I don’t really think you should be going through people’s things,” Lorraine said.

“What if Gloria only
pretends
to live here? This building is right on the edge of Harlem. Say she and Jerome live in one of those buildings, and Gloria sneaks through this one and into a black building through the back? A colored landlord wouldn’t take any more kindly to her living in his building than the landlord in this building would take to Jerome.”

“Sounds far-fetched.” Lorraine wanted to tell Hank that he should stick to bartending and leave the detective work to someone else, but she bit her tongue.

“Not if she has a good disguise,” Hank said, tossing the canvas bag to her.

Inside were a long black coat and black gloves. Lorraine checked the label on the coat—it was from the House of Beer in Paris. Quality goods. Exactly the sort Chicago Gloria had owned. “There’s nothing here that would cover her hair.”

Hank shrugged his big, beautiful shoulders. “She probably keeps a hat in there. Maybe she took it with her.”

He opened the back door and went outside. Walking to the ragged fence at the back of the lot, he started pushing on each wooden slat. A scarred piece of wood swung aside at the gentlest poke. Lorraine followed him through the wide gap in the fence.

They found themselves in the backyard of a building that was in even worse repair than the one they’d left. Two older black women narrowed their eyes at Hank and Lorraine as they walked through the back door, but made no move to stop them. Lorraine had spent her life looking at and through colored people in the exact same way that she was being looked at now—it felt strange to be on the other side of that look.

Gloria had lived
here
—in this dump? “What now?” Lorraine whispered, wincing at the scraggly grayish carpeting beneath her brocade pumps.

“I doubt they live on the first floor,” Hank replied, deep in thought. “Why go to all this trouble if Gloria was going to hit all the foot traffic coming from the lobby? If I were trying to hide, I would live on the top floor.”

“Why?” Lorraine asked, intrigued by Hank’s detective skills. “Not that I don’t love the view from a penthouse, of course.”

“Let’s say someone was able to find out where they were but didn’t know the apartment number. They’d start knocking on doors on the first floor and work their way up, right?”

Lorraine shrugged. “I guess so.”

“So let’s start at the top and work our way down,” Hank said, heading toward the stairs.

Lorraine groaned and trudged after him. They eventually reached the top floor, which turned out to be the fourth. She tried to catch her breath and watched as Hank knocked on the nearest door.

A young black man looked as surprised as Lorraine when he opened the door. “Yes?” he asked warily.

“Hello, I’m Paul Seymour and this is my fiancée, Betty,” Hank said, slinging his arm over Lorraine’s shoulder. “We’re getting married soon and we were wondering if you’d be willing to play the piano at our reception.”

The man blinked. “I’m sorry, sir, I think you got me confused with somebody else.”

Hank was all flustered embarrassment. “Oh, I am so sorry! Aren’t you Jerome Johnson?”

The man shook his head. “The piano player? Naw, that music comes from over in Four D.”

Hank smiled back. “I must’ve written the address down wrong. Thanks.”

Lorraine stared at Hank as they walked down the hallway. “Did you used to act out there in California, too? What else do you do that I don’t know about?”

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.” They stopped in front of 4D. “Are you ready?”

Lorraine exhaled. Now that they were finally here, her stomach was knotted into nervous coils. Surely Gloria still hated her. But Lorraine would just have to force Gloria to listen. For her own good.

She nodded. “I’m ready.”

Hank rapped on the door; a moment later a young man answered. A white man. He was dressed far too well to be living in a place like this, in a navy blue suit, and his dark hair looked as if it had been trimmed by a professional barber. The man didn’t say anything—he just crossed his arms.

“Uh, we’re here to see Jerome Johnson,” Lorraine said nervously. “Or Gloria Carmody. Or both, really.”

The man gave a crisp nod. “Wait here.” He closed the door.

“Who’s that?” Hank whispered.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

A moment later the door opened again. The man waved them in, reminding Lorraine of a butler. “Please come inside.”

Lorraine looked around at the dingy apartment, noting its peeling wallpaper and the tacky fact that the door led straight into the kitchen. The oak dining set screamed “flea market,” and the doors on the cabinets looked as if they were ready to fall off their hinges.

Lorraine couldn’t imagine Gloria—model-student, well-mannered, diamonds-and-lace Gloria Carmody—in this apartment. Lorraine felt a guilty lump welling in her throat. How much must Gloria have loved Jerome to put up with these hobo-camp living conditions?

The only other person in the room was an older man sitting in a chair by the window. His bronze hair was shot through with silver, as was his mustache. He was dressed in an impeccable gray suit that probably cost more than a year’s rent on this tiny apartment.

Lorraine took a quick, short breath as the man turned toward her.

“Why, Lorraine Dyer,” he said. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

CLARA

When life gives you lemons, sometimes you need to stash them in the icebox and make a martini with olives instead.

Clara patted her short golden hair as she turned onto Tenth Street.

For once, she wished her hair were long enough to twist into a sophisticated knot at the nape of her neck. Her boyish party-girl bob clashed with her outfit, but otherwise she looked the part of a real journalist: Her burgundy blouse and black skirt were fitted enough to be flattering but conservative enough to look professional. She even had a notebook and a pencil in her purse.

It was nice to have something to be excited about when nothing else in her life seemed to be going right.

Things were still rocky with Marcus.

They’d meet up, and Marcus would give her suspicious glances as if he expected her to break out a flask and start dancing on the nearest table. On evenings they didn’t spend together, he’d ask painfully detailed questions about her plans as though he didn’t believe a single word she was saying.

He’d lost faith in her, and she was slowly trying to rebuild his trust. But it wasn’t exactly sexy to feel as if your boyfriend were a copper keeping watch over your every move.

And Marcus didn’t even know that she’d almost kissed Parker.

At the blue-lettered sign for Saunders’ Furniture, she turned down a narrow alley, following Leelee’s directions to the Opera House, and quickly found the large steel door under the bare bulb.

The wall was plastered with old posters pasted one atop another, but the newest one caught Clara’s eye: a stylized portrait of a beautiful woman with a flaming red bob and green eyes, standing next to a piano. It advertised the upcoming debut of “the scorching singer hot enough to make the Devil himself blush”: Zuleika Rose.

When Maude Cortineau had slurred that Gloria had a gig at the Opera House, Clara had assumed Gloria was working as a waitress. But no—she was headlining under a made-up name. The girl had gumption!

Marcus would never forgive Clara if she wrote this story, but she wasn’t here for either Parker or Marcus. She was here to warn Gloria about Carlito. If, in the process, she figured out an angle on Gloria’s story, all the better.

She rapped hard on the door.

“Sorry, toots, we ain’t open yet,” a boy said, poking his head out. His expression softened as he looked Clara up and down. “I mean, what can I do for you?”

She gave him her full-wattage smile. “I’m Clara Knowles, a reporter for the
Manhattanite
. I’ve heard you’re opening a fantastic new show here and I was hoping to do a story on it.”

The boy’s eyes flicked from the press pass to her legs. “I ain’t used to newshounds bein’ pretty little Janes. The band doesn’t rehearse today, though. Show debuts tomorrow night.”

Clara pushed herself through the doorway. “That’s fine—I’d much rather get a feel for the place before reporting on the band. Maybe talk to the manager?”

“Okay,” the boy said. “Follow me.”

It wasn’t long before Clara was sitting at one of the Opera House’s round tables, sipping seltzer. The speakeasy was more or less deserted this early in the day but was one of the grandest she’d ever seen. A very good-looking bartender had come out through a door near the bar to pour her seltzer, but then he’d left the way he’d come. The only other person in the place was a grumbling old man pushing a broom over the hardwood floor.

The place looked plush and had a red-tinted den-of-sin theme. Even though they were in a huge basement, it didn’t feel like it—the ceilings were high and dark and the stage looked as elaborate as at any theater on Broadway. This would have been a good gig for Gloria, if only Carlito hadn’t been behind it.

Clara needed to get information out of Spark—an odd-looking man with wispy brown hair, wearing a boater and a red-and-white-striped vest, who’d introduced himself as the person running the club. “So, have you been open long?” she asked.

Spark shrugged. “We just changed the name to something swankier. We’ve been around for a while.” He thought for a moment. “But how about you just say in your article that we’re new?”

“Of course,” Clara said with a girlish smile. “Where’d you find this Zuleika”—she glanced down at her notepad—“Rose, is it?”

“The way you find most of ’em. We put out an ad. She auditioned.”

“You’re not worried about running a no-name singer when places like the Cotton Club and Connie’s have got big stars like Bessie Smith and Nora Bayes?”

“Naw. I picked Zuleika out myself,” he said, puffing out his skinny chest. “That girlie can wail. No shame in bein’ the one to discover a first-rate torch.”

“You hired Zuleika?”

“Yes indeedy.”

“So you’re the top dog around here?”

Spark sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You could say that.”

The man with the broom sputtered a laugh. “ ’Cept you’d be lying,” he muttered under his breath.

“You close your head, Rod,” Spark warned.

“Wait, so you’re
not
the manager?” Clara asked, looking from Spark to Rod.

“I most definitely
am
—” Spark began, his neck turning red.

“He doesn’t make any decisions,” Rod continued in his gravelly voice. “Miss High-and-Mighty does. Or
did
, up until a few days ago.”

A woman manager at a speakeasy? Clara certainly hadn’t been expecting that. “Could I maybe have a word with her?”

At just that moment, the door next to the bar swung open. A tall girl with a dark bob walked out, her large hazel eyes glued to a clipboard. Her profile was severe but not in an unattractive way—she reminded Clara a little of Coco. The girl had a coltish figure that suited her white smocked dress perfectly.

Spark stood up, visibly annoyed. “Hey, boss, this lady here from the
Manhattanite
wants to know the rumble on Zuleika and her band. I’d answer her questions myself, but I got some important work I gotta go finish.”

The girl glanced at Spark as he passed. “If you’re talking about the crossword puzzle, good luck coming up with an exotic bird that starts with Z.”

This woman was the boss? As Clara took in the girl’s features, she felt the blood draining from her face.

Lorraine Dyer
.

The clutchingly desperate girl she’d left back in Chicago.

The girl who was madly in love with Marcus Eastman.

The girl who’d tried to ruin Clara by exposing her to the world.

Clara gripped her pencil so tightly that it snapped in two.

Minus the raccoonlike makeup and the frantically grasping manner, Lorraine looked spiffier than Clara had ever seen her. Almost a woman. A moment ago, Clara had thought Lorraine seemed graceful—elegant, even. But Clara couldn’t forget that voice. Or that birdlike head darting forward on the thin neck. How was Lorraine a part of this? Could it be a coincidence that Lorraine was somehow managing the club where Gloria was singing?

Lorraine sidled up to the table. “Hi, nice to meet you,” she said, jotting something on her clipboard. She didn’t bother to look at Clara. “Of course the new show is going to be spectacular. Zuleika Rose is the cat’s pajamas, the cat’s meow, the cat’s paw and tail and whiskers and—Oh, she’s the cat’s everything, really.”

“Lorraine,” Clara said.

Lorraine glanced up briefly but showed no sign of recognition. “I’ve never met Zuleika personally,” she went on. “Of course, very few have. She’s like a night owl. Or just a regular owl, I suppose. But anyhow, I’ve heard her sing and she doesn’t hoot. She yodels like a real canary, let me tell you—”

Clara stood and said,
“Lorraine!”

Lorraine’s eyes got so big that Clara could see the whites all the way around her dark irises. Gone was the confident speakeasy manager—Lorraine was the insecure prep school outsider all over again.

“Clara?” Lorraine asked in a gasp. “Clara
Knowles
?”

“In the flesh.”

“Oh God, oh God.” Lorraine fanned herself and panted so heavily that Clara worried she would swoon.

Clara put her hand on Lorraine’s arm. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”

Lorraine stared at her in silence, then said, “Yeah, yeah, uh—follow me.”

Spark chose that moment to return. “Wait—you two know each other? How?”

“Oh, go blow a horn,” Lorraine said rudely, motioning for Clara to follow her.

“Just remember, Thor’s comin’ back from his afternoon poker game soon!” Spark called after the girls as they passed behind the bar and into a cramped, empty office. Lorraine closed the door behind them.

“Clara, what are you
doing
here? Don’t you know that this place is run by
mobsters
? It’s dangerous!”

“I could ask you the same question,” Clara said, plopping down in the chair in front of the desk. “Does Gloria know you’re the manager here?”

Lorraine bit her bottom lip. “No.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” Clara asked, raising her voice just slightly. “Did you know that Carlito owns this club? This isn’t another one of your catty pranks, Lorraine. This is the
Mob
. Gloria’s in
real
danger.”

“You think I don’t
know
all that?” Lorraine wailed, her voice rising to a shriek. “Who are you to come barging in here, telling me what to do? This is my club!” She rolled her eyes. “Sort of.”

“Tell me you’re not working for Carlito.”

Lorraine slumped into the chair behind the desk, tears running down her cheeks.

“What did Gloria ever do to make you hate her that much?”

“I was angry,” Lorraine answered. “Gloria betrayed me—she believed I went behind her back and told Bastian about her stupid affair. But I didn’t! That wasn’t me! I swear!”

Clara reached across the desk and put her hand on Lorraine’s. “I believe you.”

“My reputation was completely ruined, and Gloria didn’t do a thing to help. She was too busy running off with mobster-killing black men. She was supposed to be my best friend, but she turned the world against me.”

“If there’s anyone you should be upset with, it’s
me
, not Gloria,” Clara said. “
I
lied to you—all of you—and I took the man you loved away. All Gloria did was believe you talked behind her back … and you’ve got to admit that’s not really a stretch.”

Lorraine sniffled. “You asked why I hate her and I told you. Carlito offered me a job here if I would help him find Gloria and Jerome. So I did. And now I’m in love, so you can keep Mr. Marcus Eastman all to yourself in whatever love nest you two are sharing like some pair of diseased birds. Case closed, Miss Reporter.”

Clara slammed her hands down on the desk. “Who
are
you, Lorraine Dyer? Who turns over her best friend to a certain death just for some kind of idiotic revenge?”

“But I’m not—”

“This is going too far, Raine. Jerome isn’t the one who killed that gangster—Gloria is. And the reason she killed that guy? Because he was going to kill
them
. It was self-defense. Carlito is going to
kill
Gloria. But none of that matters to you, does it?”

Lorraine gawped. “How do you know about Tony? I only … I only just found out. I didn’t know before.” Clara could see the old insecure girl—the one from Laurelton Prep, the one who still loved Gloria Carmody—peeking out. “I swear.”

“Look, you’ve done some terrible things,” Clara said, “but you’re not a bad person. We all make mistakes. It’s how you fix them that counts.”

Lorraine said, “I’m way ahead of you. I
am
going to fix things. I have a plan—”

“What, like your plan to humiliate me back in Chicago?” Clara snapped. She’d been an idiot to think she could appeal to Lorraine’s better nature—it didn’t exist.

Clara grabbed her purse and stormed out, ignoring Lorraine’s attempts to call her back. She almost knocked over an overdressed midget on the stairs and was too worked up even to find that strange.