Ingenue (16 page)

GLORIA

Gloria was alone.

She sat at the piano in the apartment, trying to pick out the tune of “St. Louis Blues.”

It was well past one in the morning. She hadn’t seen Jerome since rehearsal at the Opera House hours ago. Staying out late was how he avoided having to talk to her. They were like two ships passing in the night. They barely spoke. They never touched. And a kiss was out of the question.

Gloria had spent the past week feeling absolutely awful. She wanted to tell Jerome how sorry she was, that the worst day with him was better than the best day without him.

But Jerome didn’t make apologizing easy.

Her head jerked up when she heard the key in the lock. She mustered a smile and said, “Hi!”

Jerome hung his hat on the hook and removed his suit jacket, sat heavily in one of the chairs, and started untying his shoelaces.

“Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich or something.”

Jerome shook his head. He rose from his chair, picked up his shoes, and walked into the bedroom. Gloria slammed the lid on the piano and followed. He was changing into his blue pajamas. One look at his muscular arms reminded Gloria how much she missed the feel of them around her. “I was hoping we could talk,” she said quietly.

Jerome sat on the bed, his gaze dark and cold. “It’s late,” he said, and lay back against the pillows.

“I just wanted to say—” Gloria began, but Jerome rolled toward the wall.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“Fine—go to sleep.” Gloria stripped down to her slip, turned off the light, and slid into bed. It was strange sleeping next to Jerome while they were in this rut. She wanted more than anything to lean over, to grab him, to break down this invisible wall between them. But she was scared he would pull even farther away.

When his breathing became even, she rolled over and looked at him. There was a full moon outside the blinds, and the silvery light fell softly on his relaxed face. When he was asleep, all his anger was gone. He was again the young man she’d fallen in love with, who she knew deep down loved her, too.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would wake up early before he left for the day, and she would find the words to fix this. But for now she would have to will herself to sleep. For there was nothing worse than being in a bed with someone who had his back turned to you, who didn’t want to hold you. It was worse than being in bed alone—a reminder of everything you once had, all that you could lose forever.

Gloria was quiet when she unlocked the door the next morning. She had woken earlier than usual to gather ingredients to make an apology breakfast. Who could say no to pancakes and fresh coffee?

Jerome had still been asleep when she’d left, and now she put the groceries down on the kitchen table and slipped off her jacket and her oversized hat. Gathering everything she needed had taken longer than expected—who knew grocery stores were so busy in the morning?—but she was ready to get to work.

Immediately, she could see that something was wrong. Piles of sheet music were missing. And there was no sign of Jerome’s clothing from the night before, either.

Jerome was gone.

Not only was he gone, but a quick glance through the dresser and closet revealed that he’d taken most of his clothing.

Dizzy, Gloria gripped the bedpost for a moment to catch her breath, but her heart continued to hammer in her chest.

It didn’t take her long to find the note. It was wrapped around a stack of bills.

Glo—

I found a room at a boardinghouse. There should be enough money here for you to get a room someplace. A few of my buddies will be by later to move the piano and get my stuff
.

We knew going into this that the relationship would be hard, but I guess it was just too hard for both of us. We can still work together—we both need the money—but I think we should take a break from everything else for now
.

I’m sorry
.

Jerome

After she’d read it through a second time, her hand almost involuntarily crumpled the note into a ball. How could Jerome do this? After he’d given her that speech about how he’d spent his life fighting for what he wanted? He was supposed to
love
her.

She would never have
abandoned
him—certainly not in a city where he didn’t know anyone. So like a musician. All long notes and love songs, but those pretty words and melodies disappeared when times got tough. He’d sneaked out while she was gone. Like a coward.

Well. Gloria would be tough enough for both of them.

She suddenly wished she could talk to Clara. And Marcus—had he moved to the city yet? And Lorraine would’ve known what to do—she was always so independent. But no—Lorraine would have lied and cheated her way out of trouble. Gloria was at a low point, but she was still better than Lorraine.

Gloria wiped the tears from her cheeks, opened one of the coffees she’d brought back, and walked into the bedroom. In the top drawer of the dresser, beneath her stockings and brassieres, was the
LOST GIRL
flyer. She unfolded it, flipped it over, and with a pen wrote:

Here I am—Gloria. What do you want? 161 East 110th Street, 4D

Then she folded the flyer, slid it into an envelope, and affixed a stamp to the corner. She wrote
Post Office Box 171
in a clear script across the front and tucked it into her shoulder bag.

She knew this was risky, but she didn’t care. She had nothing to lose. Carlito might be behind the flyers, but it might be someone else entirely—a friend, maybe. She had to risk letting Carlito know where she was hiding, just in case he wasn’t the person putting up the flyers.

She’d mail the letter, and whatever happened next was out of her hands. She would break the most important rule Jerome had set out for them when they’d arrived in New York—she would let the world know where they were living.

Or rather, where she was living. Jerome wasn’t living at the apartment anymore. He had no say in what she did or didn’t do. She was finally on her own.

LORRAINE

Lorraine felt pretty. Desired. Happy.

Finally.

Hank eyed the open crates that filled the office. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to do this behind the bar?” Bottles of vodka were arranged in rows on the floor. The usual shipment had just come in, and Lorraine had offered to help Hank count out the inventory.

“It’s a privilege to spend time with the manager. You should be grateful!” Lorraine giggled—she found herself giggling all the time now for no reason other than that she was with Hank.

A groan came from behind the desk. Spark lowered his newspaper. “Could you two pipe down? I’m trying to do the crossword here.” He coughed.

So Hank technically
could
have counted these bottles by himself. And it
did
make more sense for him to do it behind the bar. But ever since he’d kissed her in Central Park, being in a room that didn’t have Hank in it had become pretty much impossible. Lorraine had to be where Hank was, and she couldn’t be out in the bar right now: Gloria was rehearsing.

Lorraine had been so afraid Hank would be like other boys. They always made excuses the day after late-night necking sessions: They’d been drunk! They’d been bored! They’d been out of their minds! Or worst of all, they ignored Lorraine completely.

But the morning after her kiss with Hank, he’d shown up at her door with coffee and croissants. Since that night in Central Park, he’d called her honey four times and darling twice.

Lorraine was longing to ask him if they were officially going together. But this was the closest thing to a real relationship she’d ever had. She wasn’t about to screw it up by actually
calling
it a relationship.

Spark folded the newspaper, stood up, and stretched. “I should go check up on our new piano player. Make sure he’s working well with the band.”

Lorraine’s head jerked toward Spark. “Wait—
what?
You never even told me you fired Felix!”

Spark made a great show of rolling his eyes. “You
told
me to. I asked the new singer, and she suggested this black kid she’d worked with, Jerome. I hired him a few days ago—a week, maybe.”

Jerome had been at the Opera House for an entire week—and Lorraine hadn’t sent word to Carlito! “Since when do you hire
anyone
without consulting me first?” she asked. “I’m your boss! I can make or break you, Spark!”

Hank cleared his throat and said, “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen bottles of vodka.”

“I mean … never mind about the making or breaking stuff. Obviously, I would never hurt you, you’re very dear to me. Like my own child—except you’re older than me, and … well, you know what I mean. I just like to be
informed
, you know?”

“Well, geez,
boss
,” Spark said. “You always scram when the band practices. Figured you didn’t care.”

Lorraine peeked out the window to the barroom. Sure enough, there was Jerome, pounding out scales on the piano. She couldn’t see him all that well through the two-way mirror, but she would have recognized him anywhere—by the sure way his long fingers skimmed over the keys, if nothing else.

And there was Gloria on the other side of the stage, shuffling through sheet music and talking to Bernie, the trumpet player. “We have to send a wire, pronto,” Lorraine said.

Spark sighed heavily but turned back to the desk. He picked up the pad of telegram forms and a pen, then looked at her. “All right, shoot.”

“Uh, it should say ‘I hired him.’ Scratch that. How about ‘A second bird is in the cage’?” No, that still wasn’t much of a code. “I’ve got it. It should read, ‘The canary has found a blackbird … to play the piano.’ ”

Spark looked up from the pad. “Are you opening some kind of bird shop on the side or somethin’?”

“Just get someone to take the telegram over to Western Union,” Lorraine snapped. “And do it yesterday.”

“All right, crazy lady, I’ll go get Joe to do it.”

After Spark had shut the door behind him, Hank looked at her, concern obvious in his eyes. They were brown like hot cocoa, which made Lorraine think about being warm in front of a fire with him, maybe with a blanket wrapped around them. It would be the dead of winter, and they would have been dating for months while she attended Barnard, and she would say witty things to Hank about Descartes and Plato, and Hank would laugh and start unbuttoning her blouse, and wasn’t that what life was all about? Wasn’t it?

“Lorraine?” Hank asked. “Is something wrong?”

Lorraine sighed. How to begin to explain this stuff to him? She didn’t want her dealings with the Mob to scare him away. She just wanted to kiss him some more. And maybe bring him to a party at Columbia in the fall so that she could show him off in front of Marcus Eastman. “No, it’s just—” she was beginning, when the door swung open.

It was Puccini. “Hi there, Raine,” he said in his eerily jolly tone. “Why don’t I come in?”

“I, uh—Of course, come in.” She hated how unnerved she sounded.

Puccini stepped into the office. He wore a green, oddly shiny suit and a striped tie. His fat fingers clutched the edges of a glass jar filled with chocolate bears. He always bit the little bear heads off first. “You want one? The dark chocolate ones are my personal favorite.”

“No, thank you.”

“What’s wrong, doll face?” Puccini asked. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“I’m just not used to seeing you here during the day.” The owner rarely arrived at the speakeasy earlier than eight. Lorraine liked it better when Puccini was somewhere else, doing whatever it was he did: hurting people, she supposed, if not killing them. He was a gangster, after all.

“Yes, well, I came in today—earlier than usual—especially to have a little chat with
you
,” Puccini replied. And then he smiled.

Oh God, it was creepy. Lorraine knew that smiles were supposed to be reassuring, but a smile from Puccini made her think of a cat sizing up a wounded bird. “That’s just,” she said, “great.”

Hank was suddenly completely focused on his bottle-counting, as though “One bottle, two bottles, three bottles” took every ounce of brainpower he had.

“Carlito is in New York,” Puccini said in a low voice. “Have you heard from him?”

Lorraine nodded, even though she’d had no idea Carlito was here. But somehow, things had all worked out. Her job was done—she’d hired Gloria and Jerome, gotten them into the club at the same time. And now Carlito was here.
Phew!
“I know,” she replied. “I won’t be working here too much longer—not now that Carlito is in town.”

Puccini’s grin transformed itself into a scowl. “I don’t know what made that punk kid think you’d be a good manager. Look at this! What are you thinkin’, unloading the shipment in the office?”

“Sorry, boss,” Lorraine said, her voice cracking. “We didn’t unload by the bar because, uh, the light’s better in here and I thought we could read the labels better, avoid another whiskey sour incident.”

Puccini stared at her. “Fair enough. But hurry it up. You know what happens at the end of an opera, right?”

Lorraine smiled a little. Freedom from this place was so close she could taste it. “The diva gets a standing ovation?” she said with a nervous laugh.

Puccini didn’t smile back. “No. She dies.”

Lorraine put her hand to her chest. “Am
I
the diva?”

He nodded. “So let’s make sure this isn’t an opera. You understand?”

“Perfectly, I understand perfectly.”

He patted her arm. “Now there’s a doll.” He looked around at the crates and picked up his jar of chocolate bears. Then he walked out, humming a classical tune in a deep baritone.

Lorraine slumped against the desk, breathing hard. She jumped when Hank put his hand on her shoulder. “Raine, are you okay?”

“Sure! I’m fine! Totally fine!” she replied. After all, Puccini’s threat would never come close to becoming a reality. She had Gloria and Jerome right out there in the barroom, and it wouldn’t be too long before Carlito was on his way.

Hank looked at the closed door. “I didn’t realize Puccini was such a monster. Why do you work for a man like that?”

“Hank, you don’t understand. I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Lorraine.”

She let out a harsh laugh. “Oh yeah? Who’ll protect me? My invisible white knight in shining armor?”

Hank laid his large hand over hers. “
I’ll
protect you.”

Lorraine looked down at the scarred desk top, lost in the tingly feelings of his touch. “Okay, well, if we’re done counting these,” she said at last, clearing her throat, “we can leave the ones for the bar on the desk. The rest of the crates go into storage. I’ll show you where that is.”

He hefted a crate and carefully followed her down the hall, all the way to the last door on the left. She yanked the string on an overhead light, illuminating a tiny room piled high with liquor. Most of the bottles were in crates, though a banged-up bookshelf held several loose bottles for easy access.

“Maybe we should swipe a bottle for the next time we break into Central Park,” Lorraine said. “I know you don’t like to take your work—”

Hank interrupted her by reaching over and pulling her lips to his. After a minute with his large hands wrapped around her back, she felt sad when he pulled away, but she supposed all good things had to end sometime.

“That would be great,” Hank said. “Though maybe we should buy our own bottle. Wouldn’t want to get my girl into any more trouble.” He picked up his crate. “Now, where should I put this?”

His face was calm and impassive, as if he hadn’t just called Lorraine
his girl
. Had she imagined it? No, no, she definitely hadn’t. Hank had called her his girl! As in his girl
friend
! She broke into a smile that felt too big for her face. It was a smile a million Puccinis couldn’t steal from her.

“Lorraine?” Hank asked. “Instructions?”

Lorraine pointed to the top of a pyramid of crates. “Can you reach up and put it up there?”

Effortlessly, Hank lifted the crate high. As he did, the bottom of his jacket rode up, and Lorraine’s breath caught at what she saw on his hip: a leather holster, not unlike the one Carlito always wore. And it wasn’t empty.

“What are you doing with a gun?” she almost shrieked. “You’re not a gangster, are you?” She didn’t know whether she could take finding out that the one decent man she’d ever met was yet another member of the Mob.

Hank put down the crate and took her in his arms. “No, Raine, of course not!” He kissed her quickly. “It’s for self-protection. I just get nervous, being surrounded by mobsters every day.” He smiled. “But this joint ain’t so bad—aside from selling booze, it seems to be on the up-and-up.”

Lorraine almost laughed at his naïveté. “Hardly!”

Hank cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

She lowered her voice. “You know Ernesto Macharelli?”

“Of course—Al Capone’s right-hand man?” Hank said. “But he’s in Chicago.”

“Not entirely. He and his son are bankrolling this joint!”

“Huh, Ernesto Macharelli laundering his money in New York City. Now, how does a girl like you have information like that?”

Lorraine and Hank stepped apart as Spark walked into the room without knocking. “We got kind of a problem,” he said.

Lorraine waved him off. “What I do with my employees is my business.”

Spark snickered. “Aw, I don’t care about that. I was talking about the singer and the piano player? They ain’t exactly getting along. I think one of ’em is going to walk.”

“We can’t let that happen!”

“I was thinking maybe a word from you might help.”

“Me?” Lorraine coughed violently. “No! What they need is a bonus! Go out there and offer them a bonus.”

Spark glared. “What they
need
is the fear of God in ’em.”

Lorraine pushed Spark toward the door. “Do it.”

“Whatever you say,” he answered, backing out of the room.

“What’s going on?” Hank asked once Spark had left.

“I can’t tell you,” Lorraine said, and dropped her gaze. She was wearing nice shoes. Pale-blue heels decorated with beaded flowers that were trimmed with rhinestones. “I mean, I’d like to tell you, but I really can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. Unless you really want to know. And then I can tell you, but you’ve got to give me your most—No, I can’t.”

Hank shrugged. “Okay, that’s fine. I’ll go get the rest of the shipment.”

“Fine!” she said. “You don’t need to twist my arm.”

Lorraine told Hank the part of her story she hadn’t told him out on the water in Central Park: how Carlito had set her up with the job so that she’d trap Gloria and Jerome. “Jerome murdered Tony—probably in cold blood—and that killing started this whole mess.”

Hank’s eyes were wide when she finally finished. “Lorraine, you need to—”

The door creaked and Spark burst in.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” Lorraine yelled. How dare he interrupt such a private moment? “Why do you think God invented doors? Or knuckles?”

“I’m sorry, Raine, but apparently they don’t want their bonus, because the girl just ran off in tears.”