Ingenue (24 page)

“No?”
Carlito repeated, a menacing smile teasing his lips.

Lorraine gulped. “I just thought your men were gonna catch ’em out in the alley after the show. A big parade of goons dragging them out will be pretty obvious, don’t you think? This place is hopping. We don’t want to upset the patrons.”

Carlito scooted closer. “I don’t remember when I started taking orders from you, Raine. Is there somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me?”

Lorraine started breathing fast. “Not at all, I—”

“Boss?” a voice called.

Carlito looked up at the mustachioed man standing next to the booth. “What?”

“Probably nothing,” the bodyguard said in a deep voice. “But we noticed a pretty blond girl movin’ toward the targets. Should we stop her?”

Carlito, Thor, Maude, and Lorraine all slid out of the booth. Almost immediately, Lorraine spotted Clara pushing her way to the stage.

Good old Country Clara looked like a Hollywood starlet. Her sleeveless gold-and-silver dress had a boldly graphic teardrop design, and Lorraine immediately was jealous. Clara looked fabulous. A sharp-looking man with wavy dark hair followed her hesitantly through the crowd.

“Signal Tommy to grab her. But let’s not leave anything to chance,” Carlito said. He pushed through the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
door that led backstage.

Thor took off along the edge of the audience. His small stature made it easy for him to move fast through the crowd, and he reached the stage before Clara did.

He bounded up the steps at the side of the stage, ran along its lip, and launched himself at Clara. But Clara saw him a moment before he leaped, and dodged right. His body struck the floor with a muffled thud.

When she saw Thor, Gloria immediately stopped singing.

Lorraine didn’t know what to do. Should she run to help Gloria or try to catch Carlito? Hank’s stupid plan was falling apart. She stood frozen, a spectator like everyone else.

Jerome grabbed Gloria’s arm, and as Clara finally reached the stage steps, the two of them pushed past the confused musicians in the band toward the wings, all the while waving at the audience as though this were part of the show.

But then everyone stopped in their tracks.

Carlito walked out from the wings. The gangster shoved aside Bernie, who dropped his trumpet with a loud clang. Thor clambered back onstage, his hair a mess and his jacket askew. Gloria and Jerome stood center stage with Thor on one side and Carlito on the other.

And then someone blew a whistle.

It was Hank. Suddenly a half dozen men on the dance floor flashed FBI badges, while others stormed the stage. More agents came down the club’s staircase, blowing whistles and holding pistols aloft.

And then all was chaos—women shrieking, glass shattering, people throwing drinks to the floor and surging toward the exit. Lorraine just stepped back against the wall and let it happen.

“Carlito Macharelli!” Hank yelled as he approached the stage. “You’re under arrest!”

Carlito stood proudly in the spotlight, staring out into the club. “Under arrest? What for?” he asked calmly. The microphone broadcast his voice. “I just came out to see the show. Like the rest of these good people.” He jerked his thumb toward Jerome. “This is the boy you should be arresting. He shot one of my men back in Chicago.”

The audience gasped.

Jerome stepped forward. “It’s true. I shot and killed one of his men.”

Lorraine stared at Jerome. Here was a man who was willing to go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit, just to protect a woman. He really did love Gloria—more than Lorraine had thought a man could ever love a woman. The way Lorraine herself wanted to be loved.

And she had betrayed them both.

CLARA

Clara’s jaw dropped at Jerome’s lie.

“It’s true. I shot and killed one of his men.”

She already knew how much Gloria loved Jerome—her cousin had given up a life of chandeliers and champagne for him. Gloria had suffered the scandal of a white girl falling for a black boy. She’d even
killed
for him.

It seemed Jerome loved Gloria every bit as much in return.

“I’m impressed,” Parker whispered in Clara’s ear, startling her. “I never expected you’d have a story like this up your sleeve.”

Parker didn’t look the least bit concerned about the doomed lovers onstage. Instead, he was a hungry wolf, thrilled by the hunt. The man really
didn’t
have any morals. All he saw were stories. And Clara was turning out to be just like him.

She was still working out how to respond when she heard Gloria clearing her throat. “Jerome didn’t kill anyone. He’s lying, to save me.” Gloria took a deep breath and stood up a little straighter. “I was the one who shot Carlito’s man.”

The crowd buzzed: “These singers all work with the Mob, darling—you can’t expect them to be the least bit respectable.” “Has she killed anyone else?” “Does she have a gun on her now?” “Sexy, talented,
and
she can shoot a pistol—boys, I think I’m in love.”

But most of the audience, like Clara, just stared at the stage in stunned silence.

“It was in self-defense. He was going to kill both me and Jerome,” Gloria continued. “But that doesn’t change what happened. The gun belonged to my fiancé, Sebastian Grey. I have it right here.” She reached under her dress and withdrew a silver pistol from her garter.

There were more gasps, a few screams, and Spark yelled out, “She’s got a gun!”

Someone touched Clara’s shoulder. She turned and saw Lorraine and a wan-looking blond girl in a dark-blue dress.

“Relax, it’s just me,” Lorraine whispered. “So skittish—you’d think our best friend was confessing to a murder or something.”

“Maude Cortineau,” Clara said, recognizing Carlito’s moll.

“You didn’t even tell me you were in the
Manhattanite
!” Maude said. “I love that magazine!”

“You should meet my date,” Clara said. “He’s the magazine’s editor, Parker Richards.” She looked around but didn’t see Parker, only more and more FBI agents flooding the club and shouting out that no one was to move. “Lorraine, was
this
your plan to help Gloria?”

Lorraine made a more-or-less motion with her hand. “Sort of.” She pointed at the good-looking bartender-turned-FBI-agent. “See, that’s Hank. We were dating until—”

There was the deafening sound of a gunshot.

Half the women in the club screamed. It took Clara a second to realize she’d been one of them.

“Drop your weapon!” the man whom Lorraine had called Hank shouted. The room grew silent.

A series of clicking noises filled the air as all the agents unholstered their guns, pointed them at Gloria, and cocked the hammers.

“Drop your weapon!” Hank repeated.

Gloria laid the gun at her feet and raised her hands. “It wasn’t me!”

On the left side of the stage, Carlito Macharelli coughed. He coughed again and fell to his knees, his mouth open. He’d been holding his right hand over his chest. When he moved it and looked down, a red stain blossomed on his white lapel. Carlito stared at the growing stain, confused.

“Carlito!” someone yelled. A short, fat man rushed forward, his cartoonish features contorted not so much in concern as in fear.

“That would be Puccini,” Lorraine whispered to Clara. “He’s the owner.”

Carlito watched as Puccini lumbered up the steps to the stage. “I …,” Carlito said. “You …” His eyes rolled back and he slumped to the ground.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Lorraine muttered over and over till Clara was ready to slap her.

Gloria and Jerome had moved to a corner of the stage with the musicians, as far from Carlito’s body as they could get. Gloria’s face was pressed into Jerome’s chest and his arms were around her back.

Puccini knelt down beside Carlito. The chubby gangster looked terrified. “Spark!” he yelled.

There was a commotion at the stairs, where the gangly would-be manager Clara had met was arguing with an FBI agent. “You really think I’m gonna let
you
out?” the agent asked Spark. “No one here is moving a muscle,
especially
not you.”

“Who fired his weapon?” Hank shouted.

No one said anything.

“In that case,” Hank said, “no one leaves this hellhole until we’ve searched it top to bottom.” He waved his gun hand. “Everybody take a seat on the floor.”

Parker suddenly appeared and grabbed Clara’s hand. His face was pale and damp. He wasn’t the slick journalist anymore—he was afraid for his life.

Just like everyone else. No one in the crowd was wasting time with gossipy whispers anymore. Everyone was looking left and right, to the mahogany bar, to the booths, and back to the stage, searching for the source of the gunshot. For the gun that could go off again any second.

Someone cried out, “Let me
go
!” and there was a rustling from the wings. A moment later, two burly FBI agents led a woman onto the stage.

What Clara saw surprised her: The woman was a stunner, an older beauty with flawless skin and a glossy platinum-blond bob. Her sleeveless red dress was a little on the long side, but it was sheer in more places than it wasn’t. This was Carlito Macharelli’s killer?

Doubtful.

But as the woman squirmed, Clara caught sight of an empty leather holster strapped to her thigh. Maybe there was more to this sheba than met the eye.

The agent on the woman’s right held a black gun out of reach—it was bigger and bulkier than Gloria’s little pistol. The kind of gun a person needed know-how to use.

Hank climbed up onstage and looked down at the glamorous blonde. “Ruth Coughlin. What brings you to New York?”

The woman spat in his face. “I ain’t telling a bull like you a damn thing.”

Hank calmly took out a handkerchief and wiped his cheek. Then he handcuffed her.

Ruth showed off teeth that were just as gorgeous as the rest of her. “Just take me to the station already. You can play all the games you want with my lawyer.”

So this was the woman who’d murdered Bastian, who’d followed Gloria, who’d been out to kill Jerome, and who had killed Carlito. But why?

The two agents led the woman through the crowd and up the stairs, and Hank supervised as agents handcuffed Puccini and Spark, who cried fat, blubbery tears into his ugly bow tie.

The cops didn’t handcuff Jerome—instead, they put the cuffs on Gloria. Then they led her out of the club, Jerome following close behind.

“Gloria,” Clara called out as she passed.

Gloria looked back for a second and somehow managed to smile. “Clara! What are you—”

“This ain’t a social hour,” the agent said, forcing Gloria to keep walking.

“Come see me, okay?” she called over her shoulder. “And bring me a shawl? I hear the slammer’s pretty cold.”

There was a moment, just as Gloria reached the top of the stairs, when she locked eyes with a handsome older man in a brown suit. There was something oddly similar about their features, which made sense: The man was Clara’s uncle. Gloria’s father.

Wasn’t he going to do something? Say something? His daughter was in handcuffs, for goodness’ sake! She had just admitted to killing a man!

But Lowell Carmody just averted his eyes and walked away.

And then Gloria was out of sight.

Maude placed a hand on Clara’s shoulder. Oh God—she’d want to talk about the
Manhattanite
.

But instead Maude grinned and clapped. “I’m free!” she squealed like a little girl.

Clara, Lorraine, and Parker all gave each other confused looks.
What?

Maude giggled again. “It’s terrible about Carlito dying and all that, but I’ve been trying to figure out how to get away from him for ages. Now I don’t have to worry about him tryin’ to kill me!”

“Oh …,” Lorraine said. “Well, good, then … I guess.”

Maude sighed. “Everyone I date ends up dead, you know? I was gonna leave Carlito for Bastian Grey. Say what you want about him, but he was a classy guy. And single! But then he got killed.” Maude’s voice broke. “So I had to come here with Carlito.” She smiled again. “But I guess it all worked out in the end, huh?”

“Maude Cortineau?” a man’s voice said. It was Hank. He was even better-looking up close, with his messy almostblack hair, smooth tanned skin, and light brown eyes. “We’d like you to come with us to the station. We want to ask you a few questions about Carlito.”

Hank gave Lorraine a curt nod as he led Maude away. “Good work, Raine.” He paused. “Have fun at Barnard next year.”

Clara turned to Lorraine. Lorraine was watching Hank climb the stairs with a familiar expression on her face: It was the wistful way she’d always looked at Marcus. “So, you and Hank …?” Clara asked.

Lorraine let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, you know me. I never seem to get it right when it comes to men.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?” Parker interjected.

Clara wanted to pretend that she had. That she had some sort of in with the FBI and had stores of knowledge about the Mob. But it was time to be more honest in her work and in her life. “I only knew a little.”

“Well, whatever you knew, good work. How do you know the singer?”

“She’s my cousin.”

“Your cousin? That’s great—we can work the personal angle. Now we head over to the police station and try to get some of these agents to talk to us.” He looked around. “Think there’s a telephone around here? Maybe I could get our photographer to meet us there. That FBI agent Hank and the singer would look great on our splash page.”

Clara hesitated. Didn’t Parker have any compassion for Gloria after what had just happened?

She stepped away. “You want to tag along to the police station?” she asked Lorraine. “I could use a friendly face.”

“No thanks. I need to get far away from the Opera House and everything that goes with it.” Lorraine tugged nervously on her earrings. “Could you tell Gloria I say hi, though? And that I’m sorry? And that she was amazing tonight? Did I mention that I’m sorr—”

Clara patted Lorraine’s arm. “I will. And, Lorraine … good job tonight. I’m actually kind of impressed.”

Lorraine’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Clara. It was nice meeting you, Parker.” Lorraine turned and walked away.

“Clara?” a voice asked as she and Parker were about to leave.

She turned her head, and there he was.

Marcus.

Clara had to squelch the desire to give him a hug. He was not hers to hug anymore.

“Marcus,” she said with a small smile. “Hi.”

Marcus’s eyes flicked to Parker and back to her. “Who’s this?”

“He’s my editor,” Clara said quickly.

Parker extended his hand. “Parker Richards, editor of the
Manhattanite
. You must be proud of everything your friend’s accomplished, huh?”

Clara’s heart seemed to stop for a moment at the way Parker called Marcus her friend. Parker had no idea who Marcus was because Clara had never mentioned him. She’d never mentioned having a boyfriend, even when Parker had asked her about it.

Marcus stared at Parker’s hand, then turned to Clara, his blue eyes cold. “So
this
is why you wanted to be a journalist.”

“Marcus, that’s not fair. It’s not like that.”

“You want to talk to me about what’s fair?” he asked, his voice rising. “Well, you’ve got a helluva story now, Clara. I hope your typewriter keeps you warm at night.” His mouth twitched. “And your new beau.”

Marcus stomped up the stairs. Clara stared, unsure of what to do. A voice in her head was screaming
Go after him!
She could explain about Parker. Marcus wouldn’t have gotten so jealous if he didn’t still love her, right?

Parker tapped her shoulder. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Clara replied. “C’mon, Parker. Let’s go up top and see what’s going on outside.”

Clara felt guilty about letting Marcus down once again. But there was one thing Marcus was definitely right about: This was a helluva story.