Ingenue
Authors: Jillian Larkin
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Historical, #United States, #20th Century, #Social Issues, #Drugs; Alcohol; Substance Abuse
Also by Jillian Larkin
VIXEN
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2011 by The Inkhouse
Songs quoted: “Downhearted Blues,” lyrics and music by Lovie Austin and Alberta Hunter, 1922; “St. Louis Blues,” lyrics and music by W. C. Handy, 1914; “Second Hand Rose,” lyrics by Grant Clarke and music by James Hanley, 1921; “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out,” lyrics and music by Jimmy Cox, 1922.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
theflappersbooks.com
www.randomhouse.com/teens
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89911-9
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For my parents.
If you hadn’t given me the courage to take New York by storm, Gloria, Lorraine, Vera, and Clara never would’ve gotten the chance.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The 1920s were all about independence, but writing about the 1920s would be impossible without a whole lot of fantastic support. Thank you to Ted Malawer and Michael Stearns at the Inkhouse for your keen eyes and even keener senses of humor. And thanks to Wendy Loggia, Beverly Horowitz, Krista Vitola, Barbara Perris, Trish Parcell, and everyone at Delacorte Press and Random House Children’s Books for making what could be hard work fizzy and fun. My special thanks to Meg O’Brien and Emily Pourciau—my publicity extraordinaires, who could pull off bobs far better than I ever could. Thank you to my mother for being the best first reader I could ever ask for, and to Daniel DaVeiga for your support, insight, and tolerance of a constant soundtrack of Bessie, Duke, and Louis in our apartment this summer.
Contents
Chapter 1 - Vera
Chapter 2 - Gloria
Chapter 3 - Lorraine
Chapter 4 - Clara
Chapter 5 - Vera
Chapter 6 - Gloria
Chapter 7 - Lorraine
Chapter 8 - Clara
Chapter 9 - Vera
Chapter 10 - Gloria
Chapter 11 - Lorraine
Chapter 12 - Clara
Chapter 13 - Vera
Chapter 14 - Gloria
Chapter 15 - Lorraine
Chapter 16 - Clara
Chapter 17 - Vera
Chapter 18 - Gloria
Chapter 19 - Lorraine
Chapter 20 - Clara
Chapter 21 - Vera
Chapter 22 - Gloria
Chapter 23 - Lorraine
Chapter 24 - Clara
Chapter 25 - Vera
Chapter 26 - Gloria
Chapter 27 - Lorraine
Chapter 28 - Clara
Money.
It was worth so much, but weighed so little.
She placed the satchel on the table, opened it with a soft click, and flipped back the top. It was filled with dozens upon dozens of thin, green bills, rubber-banded in fat stacks. Hundreds.
Then she picked up the list. Three names, all practically kids: Sebastian Grey, Carlito Macharelli, and Jerome Johnson.
She reached for her gun. It was an automatic she’d bought in downtown Chicago specifically for this job. Once she was done, she’d lose it somewhere. It was a .38, a good gun to kill with.
She unwrapped it and worked the slide, made sure all the parts were clean and functioning. It smelled of oil and cordite and had a reassuring weight in her hand. Effortlessly she snapped one bullet after another into the chamber.
There was a fashion among the younger people she knew for revolvers, but she’d never been comfortable with the turn of the cylinder. And besides, the problem with letting young people into the business was that they made messes. But that was why she always had work—no one liked to clean up messes. So they always had to hire a cleaner.
She slid the gun into its holster and the list into her pocket.
Now she was ready. Or almost: First she had to wash her hands.
She hated being dirty.
FOOLS IN LOVE
“I hope she’ll be a fool—
that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”
—Daisy Buchanan, in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
The Great Gatsby
VERA
Fashion kills.
Crouching for long periods of time was never fun, but doing it in patent-leather T-strap heels was murder. Vera usually tried to wear more comfortable shoes when she was following someone, but there’d been no time to change. She’d been working at the Green Mill when she’d overheard Carlito Macharelli mention a meeting on the docks with Sebastian Grey.
She’d immediately called a cab.
“Follow that car!” she’d ordered the driver.
A normal cabbie would never put himself at her disposal for this sort of activity—a black girl? Telling a cabdriver to follow a wealthy white man?—but Wally was not a normal cabbie. He was that rarity: a black man with his own taxi and license. He was a family friend and happy to help her clear her brother’s name. “Jerome is like the son I wish I’d never had,” Wally liked to say. Most nights, he waited outside the Green Mill until she was done with her shift to take her home.
Tonight they followed the taillights of Carlito’s Rolls-Royce all the way through downtown and to the docks—a place Vera usually avoided. This area was dangerous. Vera already worked in a Mob-run speakeasy; she didn’t need the added threat of being around when the gangsters unloaded the hooch.
She asked Wally to let her out a block behind where Carlito parked the Rolls in the vacant lot. The hulking shadows of ships loomed to the east, but here the docks were still and silent.
Vera edged close to the Rolls, dodging from shadow to shadow until at last she found a hiding place behind a stack of tied-up crates. Already, there was Bastian Grey—she could see his smug features as he lit a butt from his silver cigarette case. He ambled out on the pier and stood smoking, staring out at the water.
She was sweltering on this warm summer night, thanks to her black, knee-length trench coat, but Bastian looked at ease in the heat, irritatingly handsome in a brown suit, his cheeks freshly shaven, his dark hair slicked back and parted. He was a looker, that much Vera couldn’t deny.
“What do you want?” Carlito called out as he walked up, the lights from the pier warehouse catching his gray pin-striped suit and black fedora.
Carlito was her boss and had once employed her brother, Jerome, as the piano player at the Green Mill. But then Carlito and Tony Pachelli, one of his goons, had tried to kill Jerome. And Gloria, Bastian’s high-society fiancée, had shot Tony dead. And then Gloria and Vera’s brother had had to flee Chicago to save their lives.
And it was all Vera’s fault.
Vera had been the one feeding Bastian information about Jerome and Gloria. Vera had been the one determined to break up their secret affair. Just because Vera hadn’t known that Bastian was telling everything to Carlito didn’t mean she was any less guilty.
That was why Vera was here, crouched behind a stack of crates, hoping to learn something incriminating about Carlito and Bastian—something she could use to barter for her brother’s life.
“What do
I
want?” Bastian flipped his cigarette in a bright arc across the lot. “
You’re
the one who told me to meet you here.”
Carlito stepped backward. “No, I didn’t.”
“Secret notes and midnight meetings.” Bastian walked a few steps away. “I’m tired of your little games, Macharelli.” Only a young man as despicable as Bastian Grey could work with mobsters
and
show a proud distaste for them at the same time.
“This isn’t a game,” Carlito said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. “And I didn’t send you a note. That means someone else did.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Bastian said, lighting another cigarette. “Why would anyone go to the trouble of dragging us out here?”
Vera was leaning forward to hear better when she felt a hand crawl over her mouth. “What are you playing at?” a woman’s voice whispered.
She wanted to struggle against the stranger’s hold, but she couldn’t give herself away. She felt herself being turned around to face her attacker.
Vera stared into the eyes of Maude Cortineau, Carlito’s moll. When Maude had been a flapper, she’d barely paid attention to anyone outside her glamorous inner circle. Since she’d gotten with Carlito, she stuck to his side and spoke only when she was spoken to.
“I’m
trying
to eavesdrop,” Vera whispered back. If Maude had been planning to bust her, she would’ve done it already.
“Shut up, Vera,” Maude hissed. “I was waiting in the car, and I saw you running around behind these crates like you didn’t have a care in the world. If Carlito sees you, you’re in deep trouble. Don’t be an idiot. You don’t want to end up like me.”
After dropping out of her bluenose prep school, Maude had become the queen of the Chicago flapper scene. Sequins, feathers, gold lamé—she wore it all. Her makeup was always flawless and her headband always settled perfectly over her blond bob.
But now her beaded red dress hung over her bony body like a burlap sack. Deep shadows lurked underneath her kohl-rimmed eyes. Carlito had sucked the life out of her: The flame that Maude had once been famous for had been snuffed out.
“Maude! Where the hell are you?” Carlito called from the other side of the crates.
“Just be smart and hide,” Maude said, clacking away in her heels, back to Carlito’s Rolls. Carlito was pacing by the car as Maude ambled up, smoking a cigarette. She was the perfect portrait of boredom.
Carlito banged his fist on the hood. “I told you to stay in the car!”
Maude dropped the practically new cigarette. “I wanted a ciggy,” she replied in a soft, defeated voice. “I know how you don’t like anyone to smoke in your car, Daddy.”
“Get in,” he said. “We gotta go, and fast. This is a setup.”
“You’re being silly, Macharelli!” Bastian shouted. “No one is after us!”
But Carlito ignored him. He slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and sped off with a squeal of tires.
Vera let herself relax against the crates, leaning out to check on Bastian. How could she have been so stupid as to ever trust him?
Those eyes
, she thought. When she’d first met Bastian, his green eyes had seemed sincere—swoony, even. Arrogant, of course, but that was to be expected from a rich white boy like him. She hadn’t realized the heartless steel his irises really concealed until she’d accused him of sending a man to kill Jerome and he’d just smiled and called her “silly, stupid Vera.”
And in all honesty, that was exactly what she was.
Vera opened her purse and felt the comforting, cool metal of Bastian’s pistol inside. She’d carried it often since she’d found it at Gloria’s feet that night. Bastian certainly didn’t know it was his own gun that had killed the gangster, that his own fiancée had pulled the trigger.
Vera had never used a gun before, but if a dame like Gloria could use one, then so could she. Vera loved Jerome every bit as much as Gloria did, and would go just as far, if not further, to protect him.
She snapped the purse shut and looked back toward the docks.
Footsteps, approaching from the other side of the dockyard. The figure wore a long black overcoat and a hat with a wide brim. Vera watched the person walk down the pier.
“Sebastian Grey?” Vera was shocked to hear the voice of a woman.
Bastian turned from the water. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure—”
“Skip the formalities. I’m looking for Macharelli. And the piano player, Jerome Johnson.”
“Do I look like their keeper?” Bastian breathed out a cloud of cigarette smoke, and then his face brightened. “You’re too pretty a woman to be chasing after trash like Carlito. But if you must know, he took off a minute ago.”
The woman made a swift movement, and Bastian raised his hands in surrender. “Where to?” she demanded. “And where’s the piano player?”
“No need for guns,” Bastian said, slowly backing up. “Carlito went home. And Johnson? No one knows where he disappeared to. He sent his kid sister a postcard from a post office box in New York, but that’s been a dead end so far.”
“Thank you,” the woman said. “You’ve been most helpful.”
Then Vera heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Two.
Instinctively, she cowered, knocking her heavy purse against the crates.
The killer turned at the noise, her features hidden by shadow. All Vera could see was the silver pistol, pointed directly at her.
The third gunshot in as many minutes rang out over Lake Michigan.
The bullet slammed into a wooden crate so close to her head that Vera felt splinters hit her face. She didn’t wait for another bullet. She just turned and ran.
It wasn’t far to the edge of the dockyard, and the wall of crates was between Vera and the shooter. But Vera was wearing heels, and she’d never been able to run in heels.
Until now.
She waited for the crack of the gunshot and the bullet in her back as she crossed the lot, as she turned and ran the block to Wally’s cab, as she banged on the window to wake him from his nap.
“What’s the rumpus?” he said as she clambered into the backseat.
“Drive!” she said. “As fast as you can.”
Wally didn’t need to be told twice. He turned the key, gunned the engine, and took off.
When he dropped her at the club, it was already locked up for the night, but that didn’t slow her down: She fumbled through her purse, found Jerome’s old keys, and slipped the brass master into the lock.
Whoever the killer was, she wouldn’t miss the next time.
All that had been hours ago.
Vera had made a pot of coffee. She’d sat down in a booth to try to figure out what to do next. And once she’d been sure she was alone, she’d cried. She’d cried for vile Bastian Grey, and for her brother, and for herself. She was only seventeen. She was supposed to be in school, not fleeing killers. Her mother had been dead for years, and if her father found out about the mess she’d gotten herself into, it would probably kill him, too.
The only reason this place was a safe haven right now was that it was morning, much too early for anyone—the band, the girls, the owners—to be there. That would change in a few hours. Vera needed to gather her things, figure out a plan, then scram.
But she couldn’t stop shaking. Maybe she could wait just a little longer. Just until her nerves settled.
Then she stiffened in her seat: a jangle of keys outside the door. She needed to hide.
But by the time she’d slid out of the booth, the door was already open.
“What are you doing here?” a man’s voice exclaimed.
Vera’s heart slowed. The voice wasn’t the cool steel of a thug’s, but warm, buttery, and familiar: Evan. The trumpet player in the band and an old friend of Jerome’s.
Despite the early hour, Evan was already dressed for the day in a soft white dress shirt and brown slacks. He looked the slightest bit amused, thanks to the way his lips naturally turned up at the corners. His face was smoothly shaved, his cheeks and jaw incredibly angular. He removed his brown derby hat as he flicked on the light and walked into the room.
“What are
you
doing here?” Vera asked, shutting her purse. “What time is it, five in the morning?”
“Five-thirty,” Evan replied. His eyes widened as he took in Vera’s appearance. She was still wearing her sleeveless gold dress, though it was a wrinkled mess. Evan picked a splinter of wood out of her hair. “What happened to you, Vera?” He pointed at the booth. “Take a load off, girl.” He went behind the bar and ran the tap.
When he came back, he handed Vera a tall glass of water. She held it out in front of her: Her hand wasn’t shaking.
“It’s water,” Evan said. “It’s for drinking.”
Vera smiled for the first time that night and gulped down the entire thing.
“Thank you.” She leaned back in the booth, feeling a bit more herself. “Now, I think you were just about to tell me why you’re here about ten hours earlier than usual.”
“You’re welcome,” Evan said. He sat down opposite her and ran a hand through his sleek dark hair—Vera could smell the Brilliantine. “Truth is, Vera, I’m taking off.”
“You were just going to ditch the band?”
“Aw, it ain’t much of a band anymore. Tommy’s been talking about joining up with a piano player at another club, and Bix never wants to practice. Without Jerome or a decent singer, this ain’t a good gig anymore. I just came by to get my trumpet.”
