Swan Song (3 page)

I haven’t made it this far in this business with this crowd without knowing when to go deaf, dumb and blind.

“Well, he was spooky.” Rosaline says, giving a theatrical shiver.

“He wasn’t so bad.” I protest, taking a sip of the soda we’re sharing. “He was actually kind of funny.”

“Your sense of humor is warped.”

“You didn’t even speak to him.”

“No, but I saw his eyes when he came in.”

“What was wrong with his eyes?”

Rosaline frowns, turning uncharacteristically serious. “I don’t know really. They were just… empty.”

When the song comes to a close Eddie asks what to play next. I want to tell him to put the bass down and eat something, anything, but I can’t. It’d humiliate him. Even if I gave him half my sandwich it’d be a huge thing. He was given dinner here at the club just like the rest of us, but instead of eating it he’s taking it home tonight to his wife and five kids. It’s noble but he’s starving and it’s killing me.

A door bangs shut nearby, startling everyone in the room. It echoes through the space like a gunshot. Suddenly Tommy bursts into the room, heading straight for me.

“Adrian, you’re outta here! Go, now.”

“What?” I ask, shocked. “Why?”

“I said now!”

Tommy mounts the stage in one quick jump. He grabs onto my arm and pulls me toward the steps, my shoes skidding over the smooth surface.

“Take it easy, Tommy. Geez.”

“I don’t have time to take it easy.” he growls. “We’ve got a problem. Move.”

I don’t protest. I know this drill. This is exactly how things went down when the Hawthorne Hotel shooting happened and we all went on lockdown. I grab my coat off the back of a chair as we hurry past, shocked and scared faces staring up at me from the tables nearby. I glance over my shoulder to see Rosaline watching with a stunned expressed from where we sat together on the stage.

“Where am I going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

We burst out into the brisk October evening air just as the sun is setting. The lights of the Cotton Club are blinking on, preparing for the coming night of debauchery, drinking and gambling. A night I will apparently not be participating in.

Tommy tries to toss me into the back of a black car waiting at the curb but I throw his hand off my arm.

“What happened?” I demand, looking him square in the eyes.

He glances around, finds the sidewalk empty but still steps closer. “You know who Hymie Weiss is?”

“Yeah. He’s been the leader of the Northside Gang ever since O’Banion died.”

“Not anymore. He’s dead.”

I gasp, shocked. “No.”

“It happened just an hour ago. Gunned down in the street.”

“Was it—“

I stop myself before I can finish but Tommy is already shaking his head at me.

“Don’t ask that shit.”

“I know. I didn’t.” I take a breath as I pull my coat tighter. The coming night feels like it’s pressing in around us. Cold and dark. “They’re gonna think it was the Outfit, though, aren’t they?”

“Who else would it be? Which is why you’re gone tonight.” he says, taking hold of my arm again.

“They wouldn’t retaliate tonight.” I say in disbelief, but I go willingly into the car.

Tommy leans his head inside near mine. “The Irish? They would. With them revenge is swift. It takes precedence over everything else.”

“What about everyone else in the club?”

“They’re expendable to me.”

“What about you? Where are you gonna go?”

He smirks. “Nowhere, doll. I’m here all night. We didn’t do this so what have we got to hide from, right? You, however, have a terrible cold. It’s been bugging you all week. Time you took a night off to recover.”

I don’t respond because I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to tell him I’ll worry about him but truth is I know I will. What would my world be like without him? Easier? Harder? Better? Worse? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. He’s a part of me, a part of my Chicago as much as the club, the girls, the band and the lights. I need them. All of them.

I lean forward, moving my face closer to his until our breath is touching. Until my nose grazes his and his eyes go wide with surprise. I hover for a moment, waiting. Debating. This is somewhere we’ve never been. Somewhere I had never planned on going with him. But still I do it. I close the gap. I kiss him.

It’s a mistake and I know it when I do it but I still make it. I take his face in my hands, pulling him closer until he’s leaning hard inside the car, his chest almost touching mine. He keeps his hands on the cold steel of the doorframe but his hot breath rushes across my lips as he breaks from the kiss then dives in again for more. It should come as no surprise that Tommy is an excellent kisser. That his soft, wet lips gliding over mine sends a tingle down my spine that will haunt me for days. That his teeth grazing my lower lip just for an instant is enough to make me wonder if he’ll bite me. Enough to make me want him to. Then his tongue erases the sensation as it traces my mouth, demanding entrance and I pull away, dropping my hands from his face.

“Take care of yourself, Tommy.” I whisper, sitting back against the cold leather seat.

He grins with satisfaction, his breathing even and solid. “You too, Adrian.”

He closes my door, bangs twice on the roof and stands outside watching as the car pulls away. I wish he’d go inside where it’s safer. I wish he’d close the club tonight. Mostly, though, I wish he’d forget that kiss ever happened.

Chapter Four

Three weeks later and no one else has died. I’m sure someone somewhere in the world died, but no one in my immediate vicinity. No one I know of fell under violent and/or mysterious circumstances. Considering the death toll since this gang war started, going this long without a hit feels like a record.

It also feels like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The death of Hymie Weiss cannot go unanswered. They know it, the Outfit knows it. Hell, half of Chicago and all of Cicero knows it. The only question is when.

Halloween comes around and for once I’m not working. I’ll be at the club anyway, dressed to the nines in an all-black get up complete with black diamonds on loan to Ralph from some jeweler in town. I’m not to hit the stage, not officially, but I am definitely to be seen. My costume was chosen by Tommy, of course. I’m to be a witch, but a witch with a plunging neckline and a slit cut so high in her dress it’s nearly indecent just to walk in the thing.

Other bigger acts are booked for the night. A couple of up and coming jazz artists I am not familiar with and a young vaudeville actor and comedian named Milton Berle. He’s only about 18 or so, just a few years younger than me, but already a huge name making the circuit across the country. To say I’m a little green with envy is the understatement of the year.

The girls all show up as well, including Lucy which is simply crazy. She hates the club and everything to do with it. Hates the gangsters, hates the gambling, hates the prostitutes. The only part she does like is the free hooch we slip her and the chance to see a good show without paying the cover she can’t afford. Most of us who work here in the Cotton Club can’t afford the cover and every member of the band, because they’re black, has to enter through the back door by the alley. The world is full of injustices, so much so that I almost can’t be bothered worrying about them anymore.

Rosaline and Alice are working tonight so Lucy and I arrive alone together in a cab Ralph sent for us. There are people everywhere outside shouting and laughing. Costumes range from elaborate to nearly nothing. Maybe a stick on moustache or a funny hat. When Lucy, dressed as a clown of all things, and I arrive, Rick is quick to open the door and usher us in out of the cold. There are groans from the line outside, people angry that they’ve been made to wait, but Rick silences them with a quick, stern look.

Rick is a massive man standing easily 6’5”. He’s built like a train, hits like a wrecking ball but is sweet as a kitten to me. He works as the bouncer at the door but also watches out for us girls as we come and go from the club. He’s got a soft spot for each and every one of us. I imagine it has something to do with the six daughters he’s got at home.

Lucy and I quickly check our coats and head inside. The place is packed to the gills and hotter than hell itself but it’s jumpin’ something fierce. I’m a little glad I’m not performing tonight so I can enjoy it with the masses. At least that’s what I tell myself. Just like I pretended the sign outside hadn’t been changed from reading Adrian Marcone to Milton Berle.

He’s on stage now, just a young, tall wisp of a guy with rouged cheeks and that perfect vaudeville smile. He’s killing, that’s for sure. I can hear laughter roaring from around the room and the spattering of appreciative applause.

You look like something the cat dragged in… then immediately dragged back out.

“Let’s get a drink.” Lucy says loudly in my ear, making sure I can hear her.

“You read my mind.”

“No,” she says, pulling me forward. “I read your eyes. Tone down the heat or he’ll catch on fire.”

“It would serve him right.” I grumble, still watching the kid.

“Hey.” Lucy snaps, tugging at my arm. “Are you going to be evil all night?”

I sigh, turning my back on the stage. I mean to look at Lucy to answer her but when I sweep the bar I’m stopped. Ice blue eyes are locked on my face.

“Who are you staring at now?” Lucy asks, coming to stand beside me and follow my gaze.

Drew is sitting at the bar in a corner, his back against a wall and most of his face hidden in shadows. He’s wearing a plain dark suit expertly cut to his full frame. There’s a matching fedora on the bar beside him, a lowball glass of amber liquid as well and his dark hair has a pomade sheen to it that makes it glisten like glass.

“I know him.” I mutter.

“Who? The creepy guy in the corner?”

I nod, not answering and not looking away from Drew’s eyes. When I smile he does as well.

“You know the worst kind of people.” Lucy grumbles. “Who is he?”

“Just a guy. A guy from New York.”

“Ah, so that’s the attraction.”

“Sure.” I agree, except it isn’t. “Rosaline is over there by the cigarette girl, do you see her?”

“Yeah.”

“She’ll fix you up with a drink.”

“Wait a minute.” Lucy says hotly, grabbing my hand as I move to walk away. “You’re not leaving me alone in this joint with all these mobsters.”

“You wanted to come!” I cry, feeling exasperated.

“Yeah,
with you
.”

“I have to make the rounds, I told you that. Do you want to come with me? Do you want to meet Ralph? Maybe some of his boys? I think there’s a senator here tonight.”

“No.” she says glumly, releasing my hand. “I want nothing to do with it. I’ll go find Rosaline.”

As Lucy trudges off in her puffy white clown get up I move deeper into the club, ignoring the pull of the stare coming from the corner of the bar. I quickly find Tommy sitting at a large, round table in the VIP section. He’s seated with both of The Brothers, quite a few old, white haired men in tuxes and a few of the whores from the club’s stables. One of the whores, a redhead named Mary Ellen, sits in his lap giggling.

“Adrian!” Ralph cries when he sees me. His voice is loud and his face is ruddy. He’s been here awhile.

“Mr. Capone.” I say with a small nod. I turn to Al and repeat, “Mr. Capone.”

“Adrian.” he replies, lifting his glass to me. “I’m sorry we won’t hear you sing tonight.”

“I’m sure if we asked her nicely…” Ralph says.

I give them my stage smile. “Anything for you, gentleman.”

“Good. Good. You enjoy yourself tonight, sweetheart.”

Recognizing my dismissal, I give a smile to every man at the table, including Tommy and his whore who ignore me, and make my retreat. I walk lazily around the club, saying hello to regulars and shaking hands, meeting wives and mistresses. I make my presence known but more often than not I’m interrupted by the bellows of laughter from everyone watching the stage. I try to tune it out, all of it, but it grates on my nerves. Eventually I decide I need a drink or at least something soothing.

It should be no surprise where I end up. It’s certainly no surprise to him. He watches my approach with an amused expression as though he knows I took my time on purpose. As though he knew I’d wind up here eventually.

The brain is the most outstanding organ. It works 24 hours, 365 days, right from your birth until you fall in love.

I take a seat beside Drew at the bar. Mysteriously, the only vacant seat in the club.

“You didn’t wear a costume.” I accuse.

He smiles. “Sure I did.”

“Really? What are you then?”

“A regular Joe.”

“Ah. And normally you’re what? Irregular?”

He chuckles. “Something like that. What about you? What is this?”

I square my pointed, black hat on my head. “I’m a witch.”

“And that’s different from everyday how?”

“Har har.” I tell him dryly. “Most people find me very charming.”

“Most people must not know you very well.”

“And you think you do?”

He examines my face intently. “I think I’m getting an idea.”

“Really?” I settle in, crossing my legs as I turn to face. My dress falls open at the slit over halfway up my thigh, a fact that does not escape his notice. “What’s the diagnosis, doc? Who am I?”

He grins into his glass. “Why don’t you tell me, Nebraska?” he asks before taking a drink.

I raise my eyebrows. “Now how did you know I’m from Nebraska?”

“I ask the right people the right questions.”

“There you go being a detective again.”

“Why’d you leave?” he asks me seriously.

I feign surprise, trying to avoid the question. “No one had an answer to that?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m asking you. I told you, I ask the right people the right questions. Why’d you leave?”

I reach over to steal his glass, buying time by taking a drink. I almost gag. Whisky. Of course. When I set the glass down he’s smiling.

“I’m scared of cows.” I tell him.