Swan Song (2 page)

I should say, ‘Take a hike.’ or shout for the boys standing oblivious just a few feet away. Instead I find myself shaking my head.

He steps around me, taking the seat just to my right. He remains in the shadows making it difficult to get a good look at him but I can tell he’s not terribly handsome. Not the movie star perfection of Tommy or the boyish good looks of some of the Outfit’s men. His nose looks to have been broken a time or two and even in the shadows I can see the thin line of scarring along his neck, the white standing out harshly against his tanned skin. He looks hard. Worn for his age which can’t be much more than mine. I’d peg his body at 27 but his soul at 62. But there’s something appealing about the way he’s looking at me. About the way he carries himself, as though nothing in the world matters to him at all. This building could tumble down around his ears right here right now and he wouldn’t be concerned in the slightest.

All of this tells me one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt; he’s a mobster and a damn good one at that.

I should have told him to piss off.

Chapter Two

“You’re the headliner, aren’t you?” he asks quietly.

His deep voice vibrates into my bones making me feel it more than hear it.

“You’re quite the detective.” I say sarcastically, taking a slow drag off my cigarette.

He grins faintly. “What’s your name?”

“Are you illiterate?”

“Are you always this hostile, Adrian?”

“So you do know my name. Swell.”

He sits back, taking me in as he knocks out a cigarette. “I know your stage name. I asked what your name is.”

“What’s your name?”

“You want my stage name?” he asks, popping the cigarette in the side of his mouth where it dangles carelessly. “Or my real name?”

“You’re a performer?”

“Of sorts.”

“What sorts?”

He looks around, surveying the entire room before finally bringing his eyes back to mine.

“The unsavory sorts.” He takes up my whiskey glass, gives it a quick sniff then takes a large swallow. “The sorts you don’t discuss with a lady.”

“Very chivalrous of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course drinking from a lady’s glass without asking, that’s rude.”

He sets the glass down in front of himself, showing no signs of returning it. “You weren’t drinking it.”

“I was going to.”

“No you weren’t. You let it sit for over ten minutes without touching it. The ice had melted.”

“I like it with a little water.”

“You don’t like it at all.”

“Aren’t you an Abercrombie? You don’t know what I like and what I don’t like.”

He abruptly pushes the glass in front of me. “Take a drink.”

I don’t like being told what to do. I don’t like being called out on being a liar either, even when I am. Especially when I am. I pride myself on being an excellent fibber and to have this total stranger catching me at it peeves me.

I keep my eyes on his as I take up the glass, put it to my lips and take a long sip. I want to gag. I want to spit it back in the glass. I want to throw it in his smug, watchful face. But instead I drink it down. I keep my face blank and easy. I even lick my lips as I set the glass back down, retrieving every last drop of the vile stuff from my mouth as though it were a honey I don’t want to lose an ounce of.

“Not only are you quite the canary,” he tells me slowly, his eyes lingering on my mouth. “But you are one hell of an actress. I almost believe you enjoyed that drink.”

“I loved it.”

He grins as he runs his thumb along his lower lip. The smoke from his cigarette propped between his fingers dances with the movement, back and forth. Back and forth. It creates an undulating curtain of white in front of his eyes, making them appear completely opaque. Dead.

“A girl in your profession, I imagine you pretend to enjoy a lot of things you don’t particularly like.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Like this conversation?”

“Are you not enjoying my company?”

“You wouldn’t know it if I wasn’t.”

He chuckles. “I’m getting a fair idea that you’re not.”

I am. But you never let them know that.

“And you’re still here.” I say, feigning amazement.

“That’s because I
am
enjoying this conversation.”

“Bully for you.” I mutter, taking a puff of my cigarette.

He examines me for a long time, his face completely blank. Part of me starts to sweat inside, wondering if I’m pushing him too far. Gangsters are notorious for one very fatal flaw, a flaw that is fatal only to those who expose it; temper. They are quick to move insult to injury in the blink of an eye. Maybe I’ve gotten too comfortable with men like Tommy. I know my limits there. I know how smart mouthed I’m allowed to be but Tommy’s tolerance is not everyone’s tolerance. I should keep that in mind.

“What’s your name, Adrian?” he asks quietly.

“No dice.” I tease, snubbing out my cigarette. “You already have two of my names and now you want another? I don’t even have my first from you.”

He grins, his dangerous eyes dancing with amusement. “Drew.”

“Drew.” I repeat, trying it out. “But it’s not your only one, is it?”

He chuckles. “No.”

“Why do you think it is, Drew,” I ask, leaning forward on the table conspiratorially. “That we have so many names?”

He leans forward as well, coming farther into the light. I can see him better now and he’s rougher than I thought. There’s stubble on his face, a small scar on his cheek to match the one on his neck and fine lines around his eyes. He’s aged beyond his years and I wonder what exactly it is Drew does.

“Because we’re playing the game,” he tells me softly. “And you should never play the game with anything that’s real.”

“That’s very deep.” I whisper. “Where’d you get that? Shakespeare? Mark Twain?”

“Felix the Cat.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

He smiles. “Be careful. That right there, that was real.”

“How do you know? Maybe it was whiskey.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

I sit back in my chair, still grinning like a cat.

“What the fuck is this?”

Uh oh.

Tommy has arrived. He’s spotted my guest sitting with his arms on the table, his eyes on me, a smile on his lips. I don’t know what Tommy is thinking, but I know it isn’t good.

“Tommy, this is Drew. Drew, Tommy. He was keeping me company.” I say calmly.

The guys on guard are looking nervously between themselves, Tommy and I. I smile at them reassuringly. I’m not going to sell them out, not if I can help it.

“You know this guy?” Tommy demands.

He’s not looking at me. He’s staring daggers at Drew who sits back in his seat, appraising Tommy.

“We just met.” he tells him.

“Did she invite you to make yourself at home like this?” he asks, now eyeing the whiskey glass sitting halfway between us on the table.

“No, but we’ve become fast friends. Haven’t we, Adrian?”

“I don’t know.” I reply flippantly. “I think you’re something of a pill.”

He grins at me, the amusement in his eyes again.

“I think it’s time you hit the bricks.” Tommy tells him darkly.

“You might want to ask Bottles about that first.” Drew tells him, his voice dipping. Becoming dangerous. This is a side of him I could sense but not see, not yet. But now here it is. The mobster.

“You got business with Ralph?”

“And Al.”

Tommy’s jaw clenches briefly. “Your name is Drew?”

“As in Andrew.”

“As in Birdie.” Tommy says, his voice resigned.

“That’s right.”

I’ve seen enough of these interactions to catch on to what just happened. Drew, simply by name and reputation, has pulled rank on Tommy.

“Birdie?” I ask Drew, my eyebrows raised.

He grins at me. “You don’t approve?”

“No, I do. It’s… sweet.”

“Let me tell you something, doll.” he says, snuffing his cigarette. “Never trust a fella with a ‘sweet’ name. The story behind it is almost always ugly.”

“So you’re telling me not to trust you?”

“No farther than you could throw me.”

“We’ve been waitin’ on you.” Tommy interrupts curtly.

Drew shakes his head, turning his attention to him. “I told them on the phone that I wouldn’t meet in an office. I don’t do private engagements.”

Tommy crosses his arms, annoyed. “You want me to drag ‘em out here to meet with you?”

“Either that or I can finish this drink and go home.” He glances at me sideways. “The trip won’t have been a complete waste.”

I ignore his eyes. Tommy does not.

“Scram, Adrian.”

I glare at him as I stand but I don’t complain. I’m used to being excused when business gets real. Usually it’s with a little more finesse than this, but I’m in no mood to fight and it looks like Tommy is.

Drew stands as well, showing a surprising amount of manners. I nod to him briefly, avoiding his eyes and pushing past Tommy who watches my every step.

“We’ll talk about this later.” he mutters.

“Nothin’ to talk about.”

“Adrian.” Drew calls after me. I turn to look at him one last time, noting the way the shadows hold him. Hug him. Like he was born of them. “What was it? Was it real or was it whiskey?”

I want to lie to him. I want to tell him that my laugh was whiskey all the way. That it was a lie, a fake, an act. But for reasons I don’t quite understand, I don’t.

I shake my head at him.

“I can’t stand whiskey.”

When I finally walk away, my hips swinging to the rhythm of my heels snapping on the hard floor, I feel two hot, heavy sets of eyes watching my every move.

I hoof it home after that. I should have taken a cab or had one of the boys call around a car, but I need air. It’s dangerous for me to walk around unguarded like this with the war going on, but I live here in Cicero not far from the club and right now if there’s a dangerous spot to be, it’s back at the club with Al. With Tommy. Near Drew.

This is why I need air. Why I need a breather from that joint. From all the men and their guns and their pissing contests. Luckily I live with three other girls. Two from the club who waitress and work in the chorus and another who works in a department store in Chicago. Aside from us, she has no connections to the mafia. Some days I envy her.

When I unlock the door to our tiny apartment she’s there sleeping on the couch. It’s 1 a.m. and she has to be at the store early in the morning so I try to come in quietly, cursing the creaking door as it closes. Her schedule is the complete opposite of ours which is bad for all of us getting sleep but good because at least one of us is awake during the day when stores and banks are open. We make a lot more dough than she does but she runs all of our errands so no one says boo.

“Hey, Adrian.” she mumbles sleepily, her eyes still closed. Her blond curls are a crazy matted mess around her head.

“Lucy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” I whisper.

“It’s okay. How was your night?”

I silently slide my heels off, parking them by the door. “It was good.”

“Anything exciting happen?”

“Ralph and Al were there. I didn’t see them but Tommy was going nuts.”

Lucy yawns. “Tommy is always nuts.”

I chuckle quietly. “Yeah.”

“Alice and Rosaline are still working?”

“Probably late, yeah. I’ll try to keep them quiet when they come in.”

“Thanks.” she mutters, already rolling over to go back to sleep. “I made muffins. They’re on the table.”

I can smell them then. Pumpkin, spice and everything nice.

“Thanks, Luce. You’re the bee’s.”

“I know.”

After I silently devour two muffins I strip down to nothing and throw on a man’s nightshirt. It’s loose, comfortable and the opposite of everything I wear at the club. I spend a good ten minutes pulling out hairpins to let my long, thick tresses fall heavy and loose. It feels divine. This is my favorite part of my night, the part when the club comes off and all that’s left is me. I love being on stage. I love singing in front of a crowd. I love playing the part in front of all of those people. I even love my song and dance with Tommy. But every now and then it feels good to just be me for a minute. To be the girl with no makeup stealing a third muffin in her bare feet in a dark kitchen. It’s moments like these when I feel almost sixteen again. Almost like the kid from Nebraska with simple cotton dresses and ribbons in her hair. As much I hated her, there are days when I almost miss her.

Almost

.

Chapter Three

“Play that one again, will you, Eddie?” Rosaline asks, taking a sip of her soup. “I love that one.”

Eddie, the bassist in the house orchestra, nods before kicking off into the song again. I don’t know the name of it. It probably doesn’t have one. It’s most likely something he’s created on the fly because he’s that sort of talented. His song resonates cleanly through the quiet, closed club as we all sit around eating our dinner of soup and sandwiches listening intently. We’ll have to start warming up soon to get ready for the club to open, but for now I’m loving this. Sitting around laughing, chatting and relaxing with the only family I have left. The only one that matters anymore.

“So,” Rosaline says slyly, leaning in close. “Who was he?”

I take a bite of my sandwich, frowning. “He who?”

“You know who. The fella at your table the other night. The scary one.”

I glance around, making sure no one else is listening.

“You saw him?”

She nods. “I was sneaking over a scotch when I saw him sitting with you. I figured he was important, what with the boys guarding you both but then I saw Tommy lose it.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Not with me.”

“So, who was he?” she insists, poking my arm.

I shrug. “I don’t know. His name is Drew. That’s all I got from him.”

It’s a lie. She probably knows it’s a lie which is good because I don’t want her to press me on this. I’m not gonna tell her he was there to see the brothers. I’m not going to tell her he’s probably a torpedo, a hired gun, a hitman on loan from New York. These are all things it’s dangerous to even think about, to be smart enough to figure and they’re deadly to talk about. If I go flapping my gums about what I see to everyone who will listen, even Tommy can’t protect me from the end I’ll have coming.