Ingenue (5 page)

“Whatever for?” Clara asked. “I mean, you were already accepted.”

“It’s not for me, Clara. After all that and a little sweet-talking, they were able to pull some strings and get
you
into Barnard!” He pulled her into a tight hug and laughed. “Now you can go to school across the street from me! Your parents will be thrilled, you’ll have a good reason to move uptown, and life will be just peachy! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Clara pulled away. “They got me into Barnard? They can just … do that?”

“My dad’s got low friends in high places.” Marcus met her eyes, his smile dimming a little. “You aren’t excited. That is not the face of a thrilled Clara Knowles.”

She let out a forced-sounding laugh. “Of course I am! It’s just—Wow, it caught me off guard. Barnard … wow.”

“You don’t need to be nervous, Clara. You’re the smartest girl I know. Look at how easily you finished up your course work before you moved here. You’re certainly smarter than the Unmentionable, and
she
got in.”

Clara paled. She’d forgotten that Lorraine was going to Barnard as well.

“Sorry to remind you. Is that what’s wrong?”

Lorraine’s being at Barnard didn’t help matters, but Clara would be able to avoid her easily enough. It was more that enrolling would force her to face her old uptown haunts and even older friends before she was sure she was ready.

And as awful as Lorraine was, at least
she
had gotten into Barnard on her own merit. “Getting me into Barnard … it’s just a lot. I didn’t even want you to get me an apartment, and you got me a whole college.”

“I thought an apartment would be a little cramped,” he said. “My parents wanted to do this for you, Clara. Actually, that’s the other thing: My father’s in town and wants to meet us for dessert at Le Royale Bakery. He’s so eager to meet you.”

Suddenly Marcus’s refusal of dessert at the Franklin Arms and his random desire to enjoy the outdoors made sense. As he pulled Clara into a kiss, she tried to feel as happy as he obviously felt.
Barnard
. Her parents would be so proud. They might even start sending her more than nickels and dimes.

Clara wasn’t sure she could accept Marcus’s offer, but she did need to find the courage to face Manhattan—even Greenwich Village. Marcus had been kind enough to leave her past in the past.

It was time she did herself the same favor.

VERA

Vera yawned and watched the beams of morning sunlight stream in through the giant half-moon windows of Grand Central Station.

She had never been to New York before—never been anywhere outside of Chicago. If this had been a normal trip, she would have been marveling at the beautiful building’s grand staircases and the starry mural on the ceiling, gold constellations connecting to create Pegasus and other signs of the zodiac against a blue-green sky.

But all she could think about was the killer coming after Jerome.

If the woman found out the address of his post office box in New York City, then eventually she would just come and wait for Jerome or Gloria to turn up. But she probably had her hands full with Carlito in Chicago, and that might buy Vera just enough time to find her brother first and warn him.

Vera smiled as Evan appeared with two cups of hot coffee. She drank down a big gulp. “Now I feel human again.” She looked at the map of Manhattan hanging on the wall. “His post office box is close to Harlem … so I guess we should walk to Times Square and take the train uptown. Not that I know a damned thing about the subway.”

Evan reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’ll find him, don’t you worry. Here, I got you something.” He handed her a small paper bag he’d been holding, which contained a single glazed doughnut. “A little something sweet for somebody sweet.”

Vera started to laugh. “Excuse me?”

Evan’s cheeks darkened. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

Vera was about to laugh again but stopped herself. Was Evan flirting with her? It didn’t seem likely—he was her brother’s friend and former bandmate first. But did former bandmates hop overnight trains to cities halfway across the country?

No.

Could Evan … like her? She looked at him again, his high cheekbones, his dark and stormy eyes. Evan was gorgeous, and he played the trumpet like a dream.

But Vera wasn’t here to fall in love. She was here to find Jerome.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a doughnut, though.

“Thanks a lot,” she said quietly.

Evan chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve given you a sandwich
and
a doughnut. Maybe I’ll even throw in some fruit and vegetables sometime, though I don’t want to spoil you.”

After they’d checked the map once more, Evan and Vera walked outside into the bright sunlight. Vera marveled at the buildings they passed. They loomed higher than any she’d seen back in Chicago. Despite the early hour, men and women filled the sidewalks. The men mostly wore suits and straw hats, while the women dressed in smart-looking day dresses with skirts that came down only a few inches past their knees.

Cars of every make and model crowded the streets, as well as a few horse-drawn wagons. Hulking yellow-and-black Checker cabs tried in vain to weave through the stalled traffic. A wonderful smell of brown sugar pervaded the air—Vera realized that the source was a cart selling sweet, hot peanuts, cashews, and almonds.

“So you want to get off at a Hundred and Third Street,” Evan said once they were on the subway and the train clicked into the Eighty-Sixth Street station.

“But you won’t?” Vera asked, frowning. They’d just gotten here. She wasn’t sure she was ready to face this strange city alone yet.

“Naw, I’m gonna stay on until a Hundred Forty-Fifth. I’m gonna start lookin’ for a gig right away. A friend works up there at the Hooch Pooch.”

“Meet back at the Hundred and Third Street station around four?” Vera asked.

“That should be just enough time … for a few clubs to kick me right back out the door.” He let out a nervous laugh.

Vera nudged his shoulder with hers. “Don’t be ridiculous. I bet you find something before I even make it to the post office.”

Vera emerged from the station and straightened her cloche hat.

The subway stop was only a few blocks from the post office, and it was a pleasant walk. This area was a bit like her neighborhood in Chicago. She passed tiny markets selling everything from newspapers to cigarettes and hot coffee. There were more white people than black. Vera decided to keep her head down so as not to raise suspicion.

The post office was like every other post office she’d seen, if a little dingy. A few people with packages in their arms stood in line in front of a bank of small wooden-framed windows. Others strolled in, went to the wall lined with the little brass doors of post office boxes, and opened them with tiny keys.

Vera selected a sheet of stationery and an envelope from a display, paid for them, and went to a table to dash off a short note to Jerome.

Dear Jerome
,

There is too much to say and this note has to be short, so I’ll get to the point: Someone killed Bastian Grey and is after you. The killer may have got this address from him, so you’d best stop using it. I am in the city, staying at

Then she realized she didn’t know where to tell him to look for her; she and Evan hadn’t found accommodations yet. She scratched out the line and began again.

I’m staying in the city, and I will go wait under the clock in Grand Central from noon to two every Saturday until you show up
.

Your loving and worried sister, Vera

This was not the best plan for finding Jerome and Gloria. But it was the only lead Vera had.

She folded the note up and tucked it into the envelope, casually watching the customers in the post office. Who knew how often Jerome and Gloria checked their mail? Would they come together? Or would Gloria waltz in like the redheaded woman who’d just entered, glanced around nervously, and gone over to one of those tiny mailboxes—

Vera realized she wasn’t looking at a Gloria look-alike: it
was
Gloria. She was a lot thinner and was wearing a cheap blue dress that old high-society Gloria wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot swizzle stick, but it was definitely her.

Vera was just about to call out Gloria’s name when she saw that Gloria had been followed.

A woman in a dark gray dress and a large hat had entered the post office right on Gloria’s heels and was standing at the bulletin board as though interested in the
WANTED
posters. But her head was clearly tilted in Gloria’s direction. The woman wore large sunglasses and kept one hand hidden in her handbag.

Between the hat and the sunglasses, Vera couldn’t see much of the woman’s face. She was young, for sure, with slender legs and arms and a pretty bow mouth.

And then Gloria passed between them with a rectangular package in her hands and disappeared through the door.

A second later, Sunglasses followed.

And a moment after that, Vera followed Sunglasses. Gloria’s bright red hair was about twenty feet away. That girl stuck out like a bonfire in the dark. Bobbing along ten feet behind her was Sunglasses’ large hat.

The woman was definitely following Gloria. Vera’s heart tightened. What should she do? If she yelled Gloria’s name, would Gloria be happy to see her? Or would she run away?

Calm down
, Vera told herself. Right now she needed to get this creepy woman away from her brother’s girlfriend.

Vendors’ stalls lined the sidewalk, selling cheap jewelry and hats and other things—the sorts of things that made walking fast difficult. Vera stepped into the street, put her head down, and rushed past the stalls. Within a few minutes, she had overtaken both Gloria and the woman. When she got to the corner, she doubled back.

A scarf vendor’s tiny cart was parked right near the intersection. The vendor—an older black man with disordered hair—had stepped away and was busy smoking and talking with another man outside the delicatessen on the corner.

Vera pretended to study a set of sparkly headbands. Gloria passed, with Sunglasses a dozen feet behind. Vera slipped behind the cart, counted to three in her head, grabbed the cart by its bottom, and put all her strength into tipping it over.

It made a satisfyingly loud noise when it hit the ground. The woman’s shriek that accompanied the crash was even
more
satisfying. The cart had found its target.

Vera ducked low behind an old Model T and hoofed it around the corner and out of sight behind a van on the far side of the street.

The vendor had set his cart upright again and was standing in front of Sunglasses, pointing his finger at her. “What, you think that’s funny? Messing with a man’s livelihood?”

The woman said something, and the vendor threw up his hands.

Vera looked in the direction that Gloria had been walking in. Gloria’s bright red hair and bold blue dress were nowhere to be seen.

GLORIA

Gloria pretended to study a glass-topped table.

Had she gotten the address wrong? The sign read
SAUNDERS’ FURNITURE
, but that couldn’t be right. Could it?

She should have known that this job—which seemed practically tailor-made for her—was too good to be true.

As she examined an ugly old maple bookcase, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a balding older man with silver hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a simple collared shirt and brown trousers and spoke with a slight Southern twang.

“Welcome to Saunders’, young lady. You lookin’ for anything specific today, or just browsing?”

Gloria tried to seem nonchalant. “Just browsing, thank you.”

“Heading to a party later? I can’t imagine you’d get so dolled up just to visit my store, though I’d be mighty
flappered
if you did.” He guffawed. “Get it?”

Gloria blushed, glancing down at her long emerald-green dress. It was one she’d brought from Chicago—a Chanel chiffon with a dropped waist. It had sheer, ruffled cap sleeves and a scoop neckline, though it didn’t scoop so far as to be inappropriate for the daytime. It
was
a bit fancy for furniture shopping, but it was the most flattering dress she currently owned.

She pulled a copy of the
New York Times
out of her purse and flipped to the page she wanted. “Sir, would you happen to know anything about this? I called earlier and made an appointment, but perhaps I mixed up some information.…”

The man pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked at the newspaper, reading the heading of the classified ad:

WANTED: INGENUE TO SING AT HOT NEW CLUB!

Green-eyed redheads especially desired to sing bluesy tunes. Established talents need not apply; we want only fresh blood—preferably from out West. New to town? This could be the gig you came here for!

TEL. SPRING 4829

Call for an appointment between 12 and 5

Note: A singer taller than 5′3″ will throw off our aesthetics.

He looked toward the back of the store and called, “Neal! Get out here!”

A young man with a long face and messy dark hair walked through a swinging door at the back of the room. “What’s going on, Pop?”

The old man beckoned him to come closer. “This young lady would like to see the vanity we’ve got on hold.”

Neal’s eyes brightened. “Oh, right, the
vanity.
”

Gloria had no idea what was going on. “I really don’t need a vanity.”

“Follow Neal and you’ll find what you’re looking for, darlin’. Though I can’t imagine what a sweet girl like you could want down there.”

Gloria straightened her posture. “I’m not as sweet as I look.”

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Even though the police usually knew where the speakeasies were (and even frequented them), clubs had to at least keep up the appearance of hiding themselves away. Most clubs had some sort of front—apparently this furniture store was one of them.

In her two-toned pumps, Gloria followed Neal around open crates and pieces of half-assembled furniture. At the back of the shop, Neal opened a door onto a narrow hallway that ended in red velvet curtains. Just past those was a spiral staircase.

“Well, this is as far as I go,” Neal said. “Nice meeting you, Miss, uh—?”

“Rose. Zuleika Rose,” Gloria said.

This would be the first audition she’d gone to without Jerome accompanying her. She’d sung her song three times in front of the mirror this morning, making sure each phrase and each facial expression was just right. She was as ready as she would ever be.

As she descended the rusty-railed staircase, she noticed that the barroom was practically empty. Red leather booths lined the wall closest to the stairs. Spotted but grand mirrors hung behind each booth, giving diners the chance to subtly ogle the men and women along the bar. Across the golden hardwood dance floor was a sea of small wooden tables and chairs, where anyone who didn’t have the face or the money for a booth could rest their gams.

But what made Gloria smile was at the opposite end of the barroom: the stage.

It was small but nicely decked out. Plush gold curtains hugged the sides, and the gleaming rosewood of the boards shone as if it had been polished. A light threw a glowing spot center stage, just waiting for Gloria to fill it. A good-looking young man with dirty-blond hair picked out a slow tune on the grand piano.

“It’s a ducky joint, ain’t it?” A lanky man stood at the foot of the stairs, holding a clipboard. He had a thin face with an almost comically long nose and small, muddy eyes. He was wearing an orange bowler and a red vest with orange polka dots.

He smiled with a mouthful of crooked teeth. “You’re a little late, my dear.”

“I’m sorry. When I scheduled the audition, the girl didn’t say anything about the furniture store, or how this is—”

“A speakeasy?” The man tittered. “We try not to mention that if we can help it.” He stuck out his hand. “You’re … Zuleika, right?”

“I am,” she said, shaking his hand. “Zuleika Rose.”

“That’s a helluva strange name,” he replied.

“Why, thank you!” Gloria had chosen it from a novel she’d read. She hoped he hadn’t read the same book. He didn’t seem the reading type.

“They call
me
Spark,” he said, doffing his hat and sketching a little bow. “Welcome to the Opera House.” Spark sat down at one of the wooden tables. “The name’s new—we used to be called the Kennel Klub and a couple of other things before that. Brings in more customers every time we shut down and reopen.”

“I like the walls,” Gloria said. Most of the clubs she’d visited didn’t care about decoration. Patrons came for two reasons: jazz and booze. They didn’t spend time studying the décor. But the murals here were totally jake—a reddened, stylized New York City, packed with skyscrapers and tiny figures rushing about. And the scarlet tint gave the speakeasy even more of a risky, dangerous feel. It looked like a swanky version of hell.

Spark looked around as he lit a cigarette. “Oh, yeah, that was Vito, Puccini’s son. Puccini’s the guy who owns the place, and his son thinks he’s an artist, or some horsefeathers.” Spark picked up his clipboard. “I’ve gotta ask you a few questions before you go wail up there.” He pulled a pencil out from behind his ear. “Address?”

“You can reach me care of Post Office Box One Sixty-Eight.”

“I didn’t ask where I could
reach you
, I asked where you
live.
”

“Actually, you said ‘address.’ ”

That seemed to fluster him. “I meant, where do you live?”

Gloria forced a little laugh. She needed this job. “Oh, here in the city.”

“Well, I didn’t think you took a steamboat to get here,” he said, tugging at his bow tie. He seemed nervous. “C’mon, darlin’, it’s not a tough question.”

“I live uptown. Near Harlem,” Gloria replied. “It’s cheaper.”

“That’s awful close to all them Negroes. You don’t mind? I wouldn’t feel safe, personally, and you’re just a little bit of a thing. Who knows, maybe you like the Negroes.”

She could feel a blush spread over her cheeks. What kind of question was that? He was a creep. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied.

Spark shrugged. He seemed to be looking
behind
Gloria rather than at her. “Don’t worry about it—no judgment here.”

Gloria remained silent. There was something fishy about this guy.

“Anyways,” Spark said with a frustrated groan, “Negroes make the best musicians. Duke Ellington and all that.” He pointed at the handsome pianist up on the stage. “The ones I seen are a hell of a lot better than that kid, let me tell you.” He cleared his throat. “You, uh, ever come across any fine black piano players?”

“Never,” Gloria lied, hoping Spark didn’t ask many more questions. Most auditions, she just sang and got sent on her way.

“Yeah, I guess you ain’t had much time. You look like you’re still in school. You strike me as the kind of dame who went to one of those bluenose prep schools.”

“What makes you say that?”

He glanced over her shoulder again. Gloria turned, trying to see what he was staring at, but saw only her own image in the mirror behind the bar.

“Oh, I’ve just got a cousin, or a friend—a friend of a cousin, really—who went to a school like that.” Spark took a few deep breaths. “You wouldn’t know her. She lives in Chicago.”

Gloria shook her head a little faster than probably looked natural. “Can’t say I’ve ever been.”

“That’s too bad, it’s a fine city. Windy, eh? So … windy. Anyhow, this cousin of a friend is a real pistol. I guess she got into a bad spot back there and pushed her friends away. Even stabbed one in the back.”

“Well then,” Gloria said brightly, “I’m glad she’s not here!”

“Yeah! I hope she isn’t! Would be a bad place for her to turn up.”

Gloria nodded toward his clipboard. “Maybe you want to hear me sing?”

Spark gave one last glance at the back wall. “Sure, I think we’re all set. Let’s see what you can do.”

As Gloria walked to the stage, she glanced again at the mirror behind the bar. Had someone been watching them? Watching her? No, that was silly. Spark was just a creepy older guy. Either that or fascinated by shiny things. Or … completely spliffed. Wouldn’t be the first speakeasy worker she’d met who sampled the goods.

Gloria pulled her sheet music from her bag and handed it to the piano player. She tried to imagine she was handing the music to Jerome: the way his fingers would linger on hers for just a moment and how he would wink and give a smile meant just for her. But this man took the music without any ceremony, the way any stranger would.

“You ready?”

She nodded, exhaling as he began to play the introduction, and stepped close to the microphone. Back when she had auditioned at the Green Mill, she had refused to sing her favorite song: “Downhearted Blues,” by Bessie Smith. She’d told Jerome that she didn’t give away her best stuff for free.

But that had been before she knew what it was like to be hungry. And worse, what it was like to watch the man she loved go hungry as well.

Today she would give away the best she had, and she would sing as if there were a hep band behind her and a roaring audience in front of her.

Gee, but it’s hard to love someone when that someone don’t love you
.

I’m so disgusted, heart-broken, too. I’ve got those down-hearted blues
.

Once I was crazy ’bout a man. He mistreated me all the time
.

The next man I get, he’s got to promise me to be mine, all mine
.

Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days
.

Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days
.

It seems that trouble’s going to follow me to my grave
.

She felt as if she were
in
her voice. It was the best she’d ever sung.

Until she realized the piano player was two bars ahead of her. Spark wasn’t kidding: This guy was terrible. Why was he playing so fast? This was a
blues
song, for God’s sake.

She rushed to catch up, but then he abruptly slowed down and she lost some of the lyrics. “But the day you quit me, honey” turned into “buday quimoney,” and Gloria didn’t even know where to fit in “it’s coming home to you.”

“Can we stop for a minute?” she asked.

She could hear Jerome’s voice in her head:
I don’t care if you forget the words. I don’t care if you go off-key. I don’t care if the building is on fire—you
never
stop in the middle of an audition
.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Spark asked.

Yes, Gloria wanted to say,
everything
was wrong. She shouldn’t have been there alone. It should have been Jerome playing for her instead of a man who played the saddest song she’d ever heard as if it were a party jig.

“Can we start over?” Gloria looked back at the piano player. “And can you go a little slower? It’s a really sad song … I mean, have you heard it?”

The man gave her a smile that would’ve been charming if Gloria hadn’t been overcome by the urge to roll up her sheet music and beat him senseless with it. “Sure, Mamie Smith, right?”

It took all of Gloria’s willpower not to burst into tears right there on the stage.

“Yeah, give it another try,” Spark said, his tone surprisingly kind. “Forgive Felix—he can play, but he’s dumber than a box o’ nails.”

“Hey!” Felix called. But he sat up straight and watched for Gloria’s cue.

Gloria launched into the song again. Felix played more slowly this time, though still too fast for her liking. She managed to get all the words out, but her heart wasn’t in it.

She’d failed. No one in his right mind would hire her after this audition.