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Authors: Kate McMurray

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Epilogue
“Rhapsody in Blue”
Spring, 1929
 
T
here was no small amount of joy in watching Eddie dance. Lane sat at a little table off to the side of the dance floor, alternately crunching numbers and watching Eddie rehearse with Paul. Paul was a brilliant choreographer in his own right, and the two of them kept shouting at each other to try different moves. Paul was burlier than Eddie and nearly six inches taller, thus not quite as light on his feet, but there was strength and grace in his dancing that Lane admired. The two of them looked spectacular together, which Lane had no problem admitting because Eddie still came home to him every night.
Actually, Lane knew he should start calling Eddie “Elijah,” since he’d dropped the stage name. Lane had never quite acclimated to the name change and still called the man he loved “Eddie,” and pretty much everyone else did, too.
They were in the basement of the Odd Duck, the speakeasy Lane had opened six months before on 136th Street, deep into Harlem. It occupied the basement of the row house Lane and Eddie had bought together the previous fall with earnings from a year of working quietly in the Harlem nightlife scene. Eddie had been choreographing dance routines for small clubs all over the city and Lane had been lending his considerable expertise to a club on 127th Street, which was how he’d met Paul.
Paul was a dark-skinned, self-taught dancer originally from Alabama who fled to New York when it became clear to him that his family didn’t understand his more artistic nature. When the club on 127th had found out Paul was cohabiting with a white male poet in a more-than-roommates arrangement, they’d promptly let him go, despite his obvious talent. When Lane opened the Odd Duck, Paul was one of the first people he had contacted.
In the six months the Odd Duck had been open, it had become a club for misfits. White patrons mingled with black ones, men with women, and nearly all of the clientele was queer. It was off the beaten path enough—and had tight enough security—that it had so far escaped the notice of local law enforcement. Well, aside from the cop Lane saw sneak in about once a week to dance with his male sweetheart; Lane had seen him on patrol often enough during the day that he knew without a doubt that this man was a police officer.
Not that everything was swell all the time. Customers sometimes got drunk and surly. Just the previous week, Lane had had to break up a fist fight. More to the point, getting liquor into the club without attracting attention was a constant challenge, particularly since the Mob controlled most of the bootlegging business in the city. As long as he didn’t announce his presence in Harlem and was careful about who he let in the club, the Mob left him alone. There was a rumor, even, that he had died in 1928, and Lane was content to let his “family” believe that.
Still, the Odd Duck was a modest success, and Lane couldn’t have asked for more.
Lane put his pencil down and openly watched the dancing continue. In the time since Eddie had started choreographing his own dance routines, he’d changed his style somewhat. The bowler hat he’d worn to hide his identity when they’d first moved to Harlem had become an integral part of every routine. Eddie would doff the hat, let it slide down his arm, catch it, toss it in the air. It was a prop the way his silver cane had been when he danced in the Doozies. He had lately been playing around with slower movements, too, with rolling his shoulders and adding a fluid quality to the movement of his arms. It was fascinating to watch the way Eddie’s mind worked, the way he honed a particular style of dancing that perfectly complemented the shape of his body. He’d been teaching that style to Paul, who had picked it up easily, and sometimes the two of them could move together in near perfect synchronization.
Eddie and Paul finished their rehearsal with a handshake and a promise to make that night’s performance a spectacular one. Lane stood and moved toward Eddie to catch him before he went upstairs to eat dinner and change for the night.
Eddie grinned when his gaze met Lane’s. They walked toward each other and kissed briefly. It was nice to work in a business where there was no pretending, no subterfuge, no secrets. Everyone who worked for Lane knew he and Eddie were together, that they lived like husbands in the residence upstairs. Anyone who had a problem with that was promptly shown the door.
“Good rehearsal,” Lane said, reaching over to rub Eddie’s arms.
“Yes, I think tonight’s show will be one of our best. Assuming Paul remembers to do the kick turn instead of that silly do-si-do thing he keeps doing.”
Lane smiled. “He will.”
Eddie reached over and ran his fingers over Lane’s tie. “Can you take time away from your empire to have dinner with me?”
“I think so. Let me just grab my ledgers.”
A few minutes later, as Lane unlocked the door and led them into the residence, Eddie said, “Did I tell you I got a letter from Marian?”
“No. When?”
“Earlier today. She finished filming that movie.”
“Oh, good.”
“And . . .” Eddie stopped at the foot of the steps that led up to the kitchen. “She eloped with Bert.”
Lane laughed. That seemed like good news. Just before she had absconded from New York in favor of Los Angeles to make moving pictures, Marian had reconnected with Bert, once a stagehand at the James Theater, and the two of them had quickly become inseparable. Eddie had said at the time that he liked Bert, that the man was sweet and seemed to genuinely care for Marian. When she left for California, Bert had tagged along.
“I’m happy for them,” Lane said.
“Me too.”
They climbed the stairs together. Eddie walked toward their new electric refrigerator, a strange luxury for two men who had for a year lived in the only rental they could find after moving out of Lane’s place downtown. That place had been on the third floor of a crumbling house in the shadow of the Third Avenue El, which rumbled past their windows so often Lane sometimes worried they’d both go deaf from the sound. Still, it had been cheap, and it had given them time and opportunity to save enough money to buy the house they now shared.
They ate turkey sandwiches and chatted about music and dancing and what sort of entertainment was scheduled for that evening. Halfway through his sandwich, Eddie paused and said, “It’s quiet.”
“For a change,” Lane said, rolling his eyes.
“No, I mean, where’s Frank?”
“Back at Julian’s, I imagine. This morning, he insisted it was real this time and packed all of his things into a box. I told him I’d keep clean sheets on the guest bed. Just in case.”
Julian was still Lane’s right-hand man, serving drinks at the Odd Duck and coming up with clever door passwords, which changed weekly. He’d found an apartment in a building three blocks south of Eddie and Lane’s place, which seemed to suit him. Frank bounced back and forth between Julian’s bed and Eddie and Lane’s guest room, depending on the week and whether he and Julian were speaking to each other. Theirs was the sort of passionate affair in which they fought as often as they made love, and though Lane found them entertaining to watch, he was glad his relationship with Eddie was much calmer.
After dinner, they changed and went back down to the club. Julian was laying out clean tablecloths on the tables. Lane approached him cautiously, wondering if Julian would be angry or pleased that Frank had moved back in with him.
The ear-to-ear grin seemed to indicate pleased.
“That trumpet player is a dishy number, isn’t he?” Julian said to Lane.
Lane glanced back toward where the band was setting up. Eddie was already deep in conversation with the bandleader, probably trying to work out a tempo for the number he planned to dance with Paul. And, yes, the trumpet player was quite handsome, if you liked them with slicked-back hair and thin mustaches. Not quite Lane’s cup of tea. “He’s ducky, sure. But last time I checked, a certain boarder of mine became your problem again.”
Julian shrugged. “I’m just looking, darling. No harm in that, is there?”
When Lane was satisfied that the club would open on time, he retreated to his office. He picked up the newspaper he’d left there earlier. The front page article declared that the stock market had hit another all-time high, but just below it was an article about how farmers in Iowa were struggling to make ends meet. It was a troublesome juxtaposition, one that made Lane think the recent growth in the stock market was temporary rather than the signal of a new era of prosperity as some seemed to think. Lane knew better than to think the good times could last—his experience at the Marigold had taught him that, if nothing else—but he did intend to enjoy what he had as long as he had it. And, he figured, if he lost all of this tomorrow, he’d still have Eddie.
He walked back out to the main part of the club a short time later, as the band was just starting to roar and the opening act—a group of black chorus girls in sparkly costumes working their way through a kicky routine Paul and Eddie had created for them—earned delighted applause from the assembled crowd. It wasn’t quite packed, but there were enough people seated around the dance floor that Lane knew he’d turn a profit that night. He smiled to himself and walked over to where Eddie stood at the edge of the dance floor.
“Julian said to tell you we’re getting low on gin,” Eddie said.
“We always are. We’ll make do.”
Lane slipped his hands around Eddie’s waist and rested his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie sighed, let out an appreciative murmur.
“You ready to debut the new routine?” Lane asked.
“As we’ll ever be. Paul is still trying to make changes.”
“I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
The chorus girls all cried out “Woo!” and spun around, which distracted Lane for a moment. Eddie extracted himself from Lane’s arms. “That’s my cue.”
“Break a leg,” said Lane. “I love you.”
Eddie smiled. “Love you, too.” He gave Lane a quick kiss on the cheek and then snuck behind the bandstand.
He emerged with Paul a moment later, and the two of them immediately launched into a left, left, right, right, kick routine, with the steps gradually becoming more elaborate. The mixed crowd hooted and clapped enthusiastically. Lane sighed happily. It was a strange space, this club, but it was Lane’s and it was perfect.
Keep reading for a special sneak peek of Kate McMurray’s next
historical romance,
Ten Days in August
, coming in March 2016 . . .
Day 1
New York City
August 5, 1896
Temperature: 89°F
 
A
small black dog with wild eyes ran up Broadway, snapping and snarling at passersby. As women shrieked and men hopped out of the way, a cry of “Mad dog!” echoed through the crowds out strolling, trying to find relief on a hot day.
Jerry the dog was well known to saloonkeepers and police officers from City Hall to Houston Street; Jerry would wag his tail and beg for scraps and get his head patted before jogging from one saloon to the next. Most considered him a harmless little tramp. But today, something was wrong. He ran for the open front door of a bank, alternately panting and growling. When the attendant tried to kick Jerry out of the way, Jerry bit his foot and ran inside. Someone said, “Look out, Mac! He may be mad!”
The panic inside the bank caught the attention of bulky Officer Giblin, who hauled out his gun and eyed the little dog. Jerry’s gaze darted around the room as he slobbered all over the floor.
Officer Giblin brandished his gun, but didn’t want to do anything rash. He poked at the dog with his nightstick, trying to ascertain if he was really mad. The dog snapped and lunged for the nightstick. That was all the evidence Giblin needed. He aimed his gun.
“Not in here!” one of the clerks shouted. “Think of the ladies present!”
Giblin nodded. “All right, you mangy rascal.” He chased Jerry out of the bank. Once they reached the street, Giblin aimed his gun and fired. The little dog rolled over dead instantly. The crowd cheered. Giblin bowed and walked away.
Hank Brandt watched from a few feet away with some amusement as Officer Lewis ran across the street. He fired his own gun into the dog’s head.
“Thank you, Lewis,” said Hank, pulling off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. “He was just as dead before you fired, but we appreciate your attention to detail.”
Lewis thrust out his chest. “I just dispatched with a mad dog in
my precinct
.”
“So you did.” Hank wasn’t completely convinced the little dog was mad so much as suffering from the effects of the day’s extreme heat, even more relentless than it had been the day before. “Congratulations, Lewis. You killed a dead dog.”
Lewis muttered an oath and walked away from Hank, so Hank decided to continue on his way to the precinct house.
“Extra, extra! Heat wave taking over the city!” crowed a newsboy, thrusting a paper at Hank.
“I’m living it, kid,” Hank said. Still, he tossed a nickel at the newsie and took a paper. The unbearable heat dominated the headlines, though there was a story below the fold about Police Commissioner Roosevelt blustering about saloons being open on Sundays again and an update on the trial of a woman accused of chopping her husband into bits before dumping the remains in the East River.
The World
had no qualms about declaring her guilty.
Hank had some doubts, given that he’d worked the case. He still suspected her lover, a married man who delivered ice. Maybe the city had decided the ice was too valuable to spare him.
Hank was sympathetic. Dear lord, it was hot. The air around him was thick and rancid. Simply being outside was like walking around with eight blankets draped over his shoulders. The street smelled of rotting food and horse manure.
Ah, New York in the summer.
He arrived at the precinct house on East Fifth Street, where the whir of the overhead electric fans drowned out all other noise, and still the fans weren’t doing much beyond blowing papers around. The smell was slightly better inside, but it wasn’t any cooler.
“Brandt.”
Hank wasn’t even at his desk yet and already someone was trying to get his attention.
He sighed and turned his attention toward his colleague and sometime partner, Stephens, who stood there with his arms crossed.
“Would you
like
for Roosevelt to give you a lecture?” said Stephens, glaring at Hank’s bare forearms.
Hank had forsaken a jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat. Not that it worked. Stephens, of course, was in his full uniform. The collar of his coat was soaked with sweat. Hank wondered what Stephens hoped to achieve by suffocating under all that wool.
“It’s amusing to me that Commissioner Roosevelt thinks any man could wear a coat in this weather. If he wants to discuss proper attire, he can do so when the weather cools off.” Hank pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow again.
Stephens balked, but recovered quickly and said, “We have a new investigation. That is, now that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence.”
“It is too hot for sarcasm, Stephens. What is the case?”
Stephens puffed out his chest and made a show of pulling a wad of crumpled paper from his jacket pocket. He consulted his notes. “Murder at a resort on the Bowery.”
Hank glanced back toward the front entrance to the precinct house. Taking on a case would mean investigating, which meant going back outside. That was about the last thing Hank wanted to do. Not that the precinct house was cool and comfortable as such, but Hank had reasoned that if he sat very still, he might be all right. He turned back to Stephens. “Which resort?”
Stephens looked at his tattered papers. “Club Bulgaria.”
Hank schooled his features so that Stephens wouldn’t detect his reaction. He wondered if Stephens knew of the reputation of this particular club. Not that Hank had ever been there. He’d merely been tempted.
“Any other information?” Hank asked.
“Not much. Officers who arrived at the scene first talked to the club owner briefly, but he didn’t seem to know anything. The body is still there. A few of the staff from the club have been made to wait there for our arrival.”
Hank could only imagine how putrid the body must smell in this heat. “Well,” he said. “No sense standing around here dripping. Let’s go.”
 
Nicholas Sharp—stage name Paulina Clodhopper—stood outside Club Bulgaria in his street clothes, smoking the last of a cigarillo. It was doing nothing to calm his nerves. He tossed the butt of it toward the street and rearranged the red scarf draped around his neck. It was too hot for such frippery, but he had an image to maintain, and besides, the police were on their way. He wanted to look somewhat respectable. Really, though, Nicky would have much preferred a long soak in an ice bath while wearing nothing at all.
The sun blared down on the Bowery and it smelled like someone had died—which, Nicky acknowledged, had happened in truth—and it was nearly unbearable, but he could not stand inside any longer. Not with Edward laid out on the floor like . . . well. Nicky did not want to think of it.
A man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and an ugly brown waistcoat, his hands shoved in his pockets, walked down the street toward Nicky. He was accompanied by a man who must have been boiling inside his crisp police uniform.
The man in uniform looked Nicky up and down with an expression of deep skepticism on his face. “Are you Mr. Juel?” His tone indicated his real question was,
Are you even a real man?
Nicky bristled. “No, darling. He’s inside.”
The man in shirtsleeves said, “You work here?”
“Yes.”
This man was really quite attractive, in a sweaty, disheveled way, though Nicky supposed there was no way around that in this weather. The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and then pulled the dusty bowler hat off his head, revealing dark brown hair cut short. He wiped his whole face from his damp forehead to his thick mustache before he dropped the hat back on his head. There seemed to be a strong body under the wrinkled clothing, but it was hard to tell. Still, Nicky was drawn to this man. His companion in the uniform was blond and bearded and looked considerably more polished, but in a bland way. The disheveled man was far more interesting.
“I’ll take you in to see Mr. Juel,” Nicky said. “That is, if I could have your names.”
“I’m Detective Stephens,” said the uniformed man briskly.
“Hank Brandt,” said the man in shirtsleeves.
“Acting Inspector Henry Brandt,” Stephens said. “Honestly, Brandt, there are protocols.”
Brandt grunted and waved his hand dismissively at Stephens. To Nicky, he said, “And you are?”
“Nicholas Sharp. Come with me.”
He led the police officers inside. Julie was waiting in front of the door to the ballroom. He stepped forward and introduced himself, standing tall but fussing a bit more than was necessary—“This is
such
a terrible tragedy, nothing like this has
ever
happened here before, I am still in such a state of shock!”—his voice growing increasingly shrill as he spoke. Nicky might have believed him if this had been the first act of violence perpetrated at Club Bulgaria.
“Can you tell us what transpired, Mr. Juel?” asked Detective Stephens, the picture of proper politeness, though it was Brandt who pulled a pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket.
“I did not know the fate of poor Edward until I arrived this afternoon.”
Nicky glanced at Brandt to ascertain his reaction. Julie was lying just as sure as he had a receding hairline; he rarely left the club. Nicky knew for a fact that Julie had been sleeping in his office at the back of the club for nearly a week, ever since his lover had thrown him out of their Greenwich Village apartment. Nicky didn’t know for certain, but he also suspected poor Edward had been lying on the floor of the ballroom for some time before Julie had deigned to notice him.
“And where were you through all this, Mr. Sharp?” asked Brandt.
Nicky adjusted his scarf. “I went home just after midnight last night. I arrived back at the club about an hour ago, where I was confronted with Mr. Juel and the news that poor Edward had departed the earth.”
Brandt nodded. “What exactly is your occupation here?”
“I entertain the guests.”
Brandt pursed his lips. “You entertain them.”
“I sing,” said Nicky.
Brandt’s eyebrows shot up. “Right. So. This Edward. Is he a friend of yours?”
Nicky kept hoping Julie would intervene, but he stayed resolutely quiet. Nicky wasn’t quite sure what the best answer to these questions would be or how much information he should give away willingly. He said, “He also entertained the guests. In a somewhat different capacity.”
Brandt turned toward Stephens and said, “Would you go take a look at the ballroom? I will follow along in a moment.”
Stephens nodded and proceeded into the ballroom. Julie trailed after him.
Nicky shivered, alarmed now that he was alone with Mr. Brandt, who removed his hat and took a step closer to Nicky.
“Tell me honestly,” said Brandt. “Edward was a working boy.”
Nicky sucked in a breath. Brandt stood close enough for Nicky to smell him, and it was a sour, earthy scent, the fragrance of someone who had spent too much time stewing in his own sweat on a hot day.
“Yes,” Nicky whispered.
“And you are as well?”
“No. I only sing.”
Brandt grunted. “I’m not here from the vice squad. I do not wish to toss anyone in jail unless they killed your friend Edward. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. And I am being honest. Edward was a working boy. I sing on that stage a few times a week.” Nicky pointed toward the ballroom. “That’s all.”
“You sing.”
“Yes. And to answer your next question, last I saw Edward was last night. He was entertaining a guest. They went to the back. I do not know what happened after that.”
Brandt must have been astute enough to discern Nicky’s meaning, because he jotted something down on his pad. “What did this guest look like?”
Nicky closed his eyes to try to picture him. “He had dark hair. He was quite tall. Thick mustache. A very fine suit of clothes, much nicer than the sort the guests here usually wear.”
Brandt scribbled all that down. He said, “Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“They went to the back and never reemerged?”
Nicky didn’t quite know what to make of these questions. Clearly, Brandt was worldly enough to know how a club like this worked, so he must have known that the back rooms behind the ballroom at Club Bulgaria were where men went to have sex with each other. Edward would have sidled up to a man like the one Nicky had seen him with last night and seen the money dancing before his eyes. He would have taken the man in back for a . . . financial transaction. And then?
“I’ll be honest and tell you I didn’t think much about Edward hanging on the arm of some man from uptown. This fancy dressed man was slumming, which is hardly a novel occurrence. Usually the bourgeoisie come down here to gawk and feel superior, but occasionally one of the boys here does get his claws in one. It wasn’t strange enough for me to take note.”
“Except for his clothes.”
“Yes, well. I quite liked the cut of the man’s jacket and spent a brief, wondrous moment imagining I could afford to purchase such a thing.”
Brandt nodded. “In other words, Edward may just have emerged from the back room unscathed after entertaining this man, but if he did, you did not see it.” He stepped toward the ballroom. “Come with me.”
“Oh, no, darling. I couldn’t possibly. I’ve spent far too much time with poor Edward today as it is.”
“Fine. Stay here, then. Don’t leave. I’m not done talking to you.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Brandt narrowed his eyes. Probably he didn’t appreciate Nicky acting flippant, but there was no other way to manage such a situation.
Nicky watched Brandt walk into the ballroom. When the voices of the men inside rose, Nicky found a spare chair to sit in. There was nothing to do but wait.

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