Vixen (15 page)

She turned and walked back to the table. At times like these, she hated being a redhead: She knew her skin was probably all blotchy and ugly, revealing everything. Thank God the lights were down.

Besides the occasional clink of glasses, the room was awkwardly quiet as they watched her approach.

“You forgot your sheet music.” The handsomer of the two men held out three crinkled pieces of paper. She vaguely recognized him from the night before.

Gloria cringed. Her music. Of course, this was why they were calling her back! What had she been thinking? “Oh, thanks,” she muttered.

She reached out to take the sheet music from him, but he snatched it away.

“Not so fast,” he said.

Was it really necessary to humiliate her more than she’d already been humiliated?

“So, you want this gig, Red?” He dangled the paper in front of her. “How much do you want it?”

“I want it
that
badly,” she snapped, reaching for the music again.

“Whoa. We’ve got a feisty one here.” He let her music flutter to the floor. “Just how I like my singers.”

Gloria bent down to collect the papers—probably just a cheap trick to get an eyeful. The floor had a sticky film of
souring alcohol. As she picked up the last sheet, she noticed his shoes. They were covered with spatterdashers—spats like her father wore, little buttoned gray collars men used to keep their shoes clean. Even this man’s spats looked expensive: They were silky and shiny and embroidered with a big
M
.

M
for
Macharelli
. Of course. Carlito Macharelli, playboy son of the infamous Mob boss.

Reality struck like a match in the dark: She was a little rich girl, trapped underground, with black musicians and notoriously vicious mobsters. What had she gotten herself into?

“She’s not ready, Carlito,” Jerome said, breaking the silence. “Imagine when there are a few hundred people crammed in here, corked and shouting. Her voice is too small—it won’t carry.”

Carlito exhaled his cigar smoke into Jerome’s face. “She’s got something.” He looked Gloria up and down. “Something fresh. I like her.”

“Yeah, I like her, too. I like her plenty. But she needs to strengthen her vocal cords, build up her endurance. She’s got no technique and no experience.”

“Then you got a lot of work ahead of you, Johnson.”

Jerome’s eyes darkened. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s your responsibility now. Get her ready. Train her. You’ve got two whole weeks. That should be plenty of time.” Carlito dropped his cigar into Jerome’s drink. “You’ll see. The inexperienced girls are always the fastest learners.”

Jerome opened his mouth as if he was about to protest further but said nothing. Instead he rubbed his jaw and shot Gloria a venomous glare.

Gloria knew she should be ecstatic—she had gotten a job as a
singer
, for God’s sake—but how was she going to sneak out of her house every night? How was she going to skip school for voice lessons?

But those were the least of her worries. Getting out of the occasional class at Laurelton with some forged doctor’s note was not the issue. Being a rich white girl with a notable family fronting an all-black band? In an illegal speakeasy? What if Bastian found out? Surely his banker friends went to the club. Now,
that
she should be worried about.

“Gloria Carson, huh?” Carlito said, his eyes on her chest.

“My friends call me Glo.”

“How perfect. Before long, your name will be
glo
-wing in lights.” He took her hand and kissed it. Gloria couldn’t tell whether he was being sincere or was mocking her, but his clammy hand and wandering eyes made her recoil. “Welcome to the Green Mill. Welcome to your future!” Carlito turned to Jerome. “Welcome the lady properly, Johnson.”

With what looked like a great deal of effort, Jerome set down the glass with the cigar and stepped forward. “Sorry if I came off a little harsh there just now. Your voice really does have a captivating quality, Miss Carson. But that ain’t nothing compared to how you’re going to sing in two weeks.”

Gloria was momentarily dizzy. It was that simple—a compliment from Jerome, and something deep inside her came alive.

Gloria turned her mother’s car into the driveway.

She was late. Too late. She was going to be in
so
much trouble. And yet it was hard to care. She was going to be a singer!

She could make out two shadowy figures near the front of the house who looked vaguely like Lorraine and Marcus. The last two people she wanted to see right now.

With the headlights out, she killed the engine and coasted down the long circular driveway and to a nearly silent stop right in front of the garage. She eased the car door open, slipped out, and gently shut it. Then she walked in her stockinged feet to the side of the house, her shoes in her left hand.

Marcus and Lorraine met her there, gawking, as if they had been waiting all night for her arrival.

“So the guest of honor decides to grace us with her presence,” Lorraine said.

Gloria’s first thought was: What on God’s green earth was her best friend wearing? Her second was: Why hadn’t she thought up an excuse before now—where was she going to tell them she’d been?

“Don’t ask,” Gloria said. Simple enough. She took Lorraine’s cigarette out of her mouth and planted it in her own. If there’d ever been an appropriate time for a cig, it was right now.

“Come on, you think we’re gonna let you off the hook that easy?” asked Marcus, jabbing her in the side. “Start talking.”

What could she possibly say? As much as she loved her friends, they would never understand. She barely understood the whole thing herself. “Oh, Bastian just needed me for something,” she said, coughing because she still couldn’t gracefully inhale. “Some sort of business emergency, you know, dealing with stocks or bonds or whatever.”

“Stocks and bonds, my ass,” said Lorraine.

“Speaking of, I can practically see yours from a mile away,” Gloria said, feeling Lorraine’s nearly transparent dress. “What is this made out of, rice paper?”

Marcus burst out laughing. “I think Henri
le chef
mistook her for an extra piece of meat and wrapped her up to go home.”

Lorraine stomped her foot. “This dress happens to be the hottest thing on the streets of Paris!”

“More like the hottest thing on the street
walkers
of Paris.” Gloria laughed. She loved Lorraine, but more and more lately, Gloria sensed an edge of competition creeping between them: Lorraine was constantly trying to out-sparkle, out-bead, out-boob, and out-bob her. What was the reason behind it all?

“I’d better force myself inside before my buzz wears off. Come on, kids,” Gloria said, putting her arms around their shoulders. “Escort me to my execution.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that thrilling task to Marcus,” Lorraine said. “I’ve already been executed. By your mother. And I didn’t even
do
anything.”

Gloria could only guess what that was about, but Lorraine would have to wait. There were only so many battles a girl could fight in the world, and Gloria had to prepare herself for the one looming between her and her mother. And there’d be worse to come: She couldn’t stop thinking back to how the touch of Jerome’s hand had taken her breath away.

“I’ll call you later,” Gloria said, kissing Lorraine’s cheek. “That is, if I’m not banned from using the telephone for the rest of my life.” She looped her arm in Marcus’s and said, “You, I need inside. Whatever I say, back me up.”

“Gloria Carmody,” he said. “What do you have up that sleeve of yours? Oh, that’s right,” he said, touching her bare arm. “You’re not
wearing
any sleeves.”

“All you need to know is this: We were together the entire night.”

“Sheer falsehood!” Marcus said, mock-scandalized. He chuckled. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Not a clue,” Gloria said. But one thing she
did
know: From this moment on, she was going to tell one big lie after another. And she had never been more thrilled in her life.

CLARA

How quickly a week could pass!

Ever since the debutante dinner, Clara’s social calendar had been just short of full. First Ginnie Bitman’s mother had invited her for lunch on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday she’d gone to Betty Havermill’s estate for a fancy dinner with the girl and her parents. Betty’s father was a famous Chicago architect and had designed their mansion himself, all tall ceilings and windowed walls. Thursday was ice cream with Dot Spencer at a tiny place called Harry’s, where the only flavors were chocolate and vanilla and people waited on line for over twenty minutes. Clara never liked waiting for anything, but had to admit that the ice cream was pretty tasty. Afterward, she had listened to Dot play the piano in her family’s sitting room. If Clara never heard another
Gershwin tune for the rest of her life, she would die happy. No offense to Gershwin, of course—just to Dot.

Getting to know these boring girls, and their equally boring parents, was the dregs. There was no jazz, no excitement, and no men. At least, no men with boyfriend potential.

Which was a good thing, Clara told herself. She didn’t
want
a boyfriend. What she wanted was to move up in the world, to make a name for herself here in Chicago, and she was doing it. Slowly but surely. Yes, it involved some seriously tedious social visits, but she’d had to suffer through a lot worse in the past. This stuff was easy peasy.

Now it was Friday night, and Clara was, for the first time all week, without plans. Gloria was still grounded after her excruciatingly late entrance to her own debutante dinner. Just thinking about it made Clara grin; she wouldn’t have believed Gloria’s performance that night if she hadn’t witnessed it herself.

Just as dessert and coffee were being served, Gloria had come traipsing in arm in arm with Marcus Eastman, a crazed look in her eye.

“I am
so
sorry! I have no excuse for my tardiness,” she started, “but I just
had
to rush to the aid of one of my dearest friends—who really should learn to remember where he puts his keys!”

Mrs. Carmody dabbed at her lips with her napkin, folded it, and set it on the table in front of her. “Is that so?”

To his credit, Eastman gamely played along. He slapped his forehead and said, “Silly me, I’d forget my feet if they weren’t attached to my legs.” He could be the perfect man, Clara thought, if only he weren’t so smitten with himself. Marcus had turned to Gloria. “If it weren’t for the large-hearted kindness of Miss Carmody, I would never have been able to—”

“Get into his house!” Gloria finished.

“Why couldn’t his man let him in?” Mrs. Carmody asked. “Or his parents?”

“Sick!” Gloria said, as Marcus said, “In Mexico!”

They glanced at each other.

“That is,” Gloria continued, “his parents are in Mexico and his butler is sick.”

“Just sneezes all over everything,” Marcus explained. “Utterly revolting. You wouldn’t want him anywhere near you, really.”

“But I have his spare key,” Gloria said, obviously relieved to have arrived at something like an ending to the story.

“And that made you ninety minutes late?” her mother asked.

“The key didn’t fit,” Marcus said. “On account of …”

“…   the burglary,” Gloria said. “Yes, they were burgled and had to change their locks.”

“Quite traumatic,” Marcus said.

The girls beside her tittered, and Clara had to refrain from laughing out loud.

Clara looked around at Ginnie and Dot and Betty, and at their matching mothers at the table across from them. Everyone looked confused. The dinner plates had been cleared, and the servants were pouring dark coffee into the Carmodys’ perfect china cups and setting out sugar and cream on each table. The smell of the floral centerpieces was overwhelming, and Clara thought she might be sick. She looked at the ice sculpture, which was still intact, though the bride’s features had started to melt. Clara wondered how long it would take before the statue puddled away entirely.

“That’s very strange,” Gloria’s mother said, rising. “Especially as the Eastmans didn’t say a word about a burglary to me—”