Swan Song (3 page)

Almost.

Chapter Three

“Play that one again, will you, Eddie?” Rosaline asks, taking a sip of her soup. “I love that one.”

Eddie, the bassist in the house orchestra, nods before kicking off into the song again. I don’t know the name of it. It probably doesn’t have one. It’s most likely something he’s created on the fly because he’s that sort of talented. His song resonates cleanly through the quiet, closed club as we all sit around eating our dinner of soup and sandwiches, listening intently. We’ll have to start warming up soon to get ready for the club to open, but for now I’m loving this. Laughing, chatting, and relaxing with the only family I have left. The only one that matters anymore.

The club looks different in the daylight. It’s more damaged. The bar has less luster, the floors are scuffed, the tables are all missing their linen dressings leaving the entire room feeling darker. Heavier. There are no jewels here in the daylight. No diamonds or emeralds. There’s just us – the entertainers who can’t afford a drink when we’re open. The gangsters who don’t bother with jackets to conceal the shiny revolvers strapped to their sides.

“So,” Rosaline says slyly, leaning in close, “who was he?”

I take a bite of my sandwich, frowning. “He who?”

“You know who. The fella at your table the other night. The scary one.”

My eyes skate the room, making sure no one else is listening. “You saw him?”

“I was sneaking over a scotch when I saw him sitting with you. I figured he was important to be sitting alone with you, but then I saw Tommy come loose and I made myself scarce. So,” she repeats insistently , poking my arm, “who was he?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. “His name is Dan or Stan. I don’t remember.”

Rosaline knows it’s a lie, but she also knows not to push. The story will get larger and larger with every question, and he’ll be a man from Mars before I tell her he was there to see the brothers. Or that he’s probably a torpedo. A hired gun. A hitman on loan from New York. These are all things it’s dangerous to even think about, to be smart enough to figure, and they’re deadly to talk about. If I go flapping my gums about what I see to everyone who will listen, even Ralph can’t protect me from the end I’ll have coming.

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 informs me, giving a theatrical shiver.

I laugh. “How was he spooky?”

“He had that feeling, ya know? Like one of the quiet ones.” She looks at me hard. “You can’t trust the quiet ones.”

“He wasn’t so bad. He was funny.”

Rosaline snorts at me. “Your sense of humor is warped.”

“You didn’t even speak to him.”

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

“And what was wrong with his eyes? Were they red? Maybe he’s Dracula,” I tease.

Rosaline frowns, turning uncharacteristically serious despite my teasing. “I don’t know really. They were… 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’ll take it home to his wife and five kids. It’s noble but he’s starving and it’s killing me.

The door leading backstage bangs open loudly. It echoes through the space like a gunshot, startling everyone. Suddenly Tommy is standing there, his presence instantly commanding the entire room.

“Adrian, get in here now,” he commands severely. “We gotta talk, you and I.”

“Uh oh,” Rosaline breathes.

I slide calmly off the stage and saunter toward him, unrushed by his agitated attitude, but inside I’m ranting curses. Most of them are directed at Drew. That’s what this has to be about. It’s my payback for my flirtations that night. It’s a scolding for a child, and I’m in no rush to get to it.

“Take your sweet time, Aid,” Tommy growls. “I got nothin’ better to do than wait around on you.”

“My, aren’t you evil today?” I ask, slipping past him through the door.

He slams it shut behind me before ushering me down the hallway toward his office, his hand on the small of my back. His touch is firm, tense, but now that I’m close to him I don’t know that he feels angry. His eyes are intent on the path ahead, his mouth and jaw set tight, but there are none of the telltale quivers of rage in them.

Tommy nudges me into his office before closing us in together. He doesn’t tell me to sit and he doesn’t go behind his desk. Instead, he pulls me to the farthest corner of the room and backs me into it where it’s dark. Shadowed and cramped with his body bearing down on mine and blocking out the light from the lamp on his desk.

“I’m gonna be straight with you because I don’t have the time to beat around the bush,” he tells me quietly, his eyes hard on mine. “Can you handle that?”

I nod my head, thrown by the question. Maybe this isn’t about Drew after all. My mind flashes to the terrifying night of the Hawthorne and I worry that one of the Capones is dead. What will that mean for The Outfit, this club, and everyone inside? Unseating the king means a scramble for power. The savage dogs that lap at his scraps will tear each other apart, and those of us living on the fringe will be casualties of a potential civil war or forced to try to make a life elsewhere.

As Tommy stares down at me, I wonder how he’d fair. How high he’d climb.

I worry he’d try to drag me with him.

He frowns down at me. “Say it out loud.”

“Yes,” I comply. “I can handle it.”

“Good, because I need you on top of things out there. I can’t be bothered with it tonight. I got other things, bigger things that I gotta attend to. I need you to keep the girls in line. You gotta keep ‘em calm, you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you, but what’s happened?”

“You know who Hymie Weiss is?”

“Of course I do. 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.”

I’m dying to ask who did it. Who ordered the hit, but I keep my cool. This isn’t a part of the club I get involved in. This is Outfit business, something I’d be wise to stay out of. I tell myself it was a terrible accident. An unfortunate coincidence that the biggest thorn in Al’s side took his last breath today.

“His poor family,” I lament carefully.

“Yeah, it’s a real tragedy.”

“They’re going to think The Outfit was behind it, aren’t they?”

“Of course. That’s why we’re circlin’ the wagons. Security is gonna be tight tonight. Only trusted regulars will be allowed in, but we can’t close. It’d be an admission of fear and guilt, so business as usual, you got me?”

“I got you,” I reply, feeling my stomach knitting with fear. Fear that I refuse to let show on my face.

“Keep your eyes and ears sharp. Tell the girls to stay alert, but don’t scare ‘em. Last thing I need is a henhouse full of hysterical dames.”

“They’ll be solid. I’ll make sure of it.” I hesitate before asking, “The Irish, they’re quick to react, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Tommy nods. “With them revenge is swift. It’ll be the first order of business to find out who did it. If they get a whiff on the wind that anyone in this joint was behind it, they’ll strike. Tonight.”

My heart nearly beats out of my chest, but I will it to slow. To maintain. “Will you be here with us?”

“All night,” he promises me.

That’s comforting. It’s calming. This beautiful monster in my corner puts my heart at ease.

And that scares me more than anything.

“Good. I’ll go gather the girls. Do you want to tell them or should I?”

“You do it. Most of them are afraid of me. Bad news from my mouth will only make trouble. Trouble I don’t need tonight.”

I nod in agreement, going to step past him.

He puts his hands on my arms to stop me. “You alright?”

“I’m always alright.”

His eyes scan my face critically, checking for signs of a lie. For cracks or faults where weakness could spill out. I give him none to find. “You gonna be okay to perform?”

“You gonna keep me safe up there?” I ask plainly.

“Always. From anything.” He looks at me pointedly. “From anyone.”

Ah, here it is. My scolding.

I smile lightly. “From bullets will be plenty, thanks.”

He doesn’t reply. He holds me pinned down by his stare, trying to make me sweat or confess some sin I haven’t committed.

I wait him out impassively.

Finally he takes a step back, giving me an escape. “You better get out there. Break the news.” He rubs his thumb under my left eye lightly. “Shed a tear if you can. They’ll follow your lead, and sad is better than afraid.”

“I’ll give the performance of a lifetime,” I promise.

Then I hightail it out of that office.

My fingers are shaking when I reach for the doorknob.

Chapter Four

Three weeks later and no one else has died. 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. My costume was chosen by Tommy, of course. I’m 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 down the street.

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. He’s only about eighteen 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 has to enter through the back door by the alley simply because of the color of their skin. 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. It makes me a little bit nervous because there’s so much motion and noise, it’s hard to filter out what’s friendly from what could get me killed, but I keep my chin up and my shoulders squared as I pass through the chaos.

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 six foot, five inches. 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 my name to the toddler standing on stage.

He’s a 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.

“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 by ice blue eyes 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 along with a lowball glass of amber liquid, 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 vaguely. “Rosaline is over there by the cigarette girl, do you see her?”

“Yeah.”

“She’ll fix you up with a drink.”

“Wait a minute,” she 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 answers 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. Her eyes have the glassy look of a doper and I know just looking at her that she’ll wake up tomorrow and never remember tonight.

“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 people 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.

I take a seat beside Drew at the bar, which is mysteriously the only vacant seat in the club.

“You didn’t wear a costume,” I accuse, crossing my legs and getting settled.

“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 turn to face him and 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, Iowa?” he asks before taking a drink.

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

“I ask the right people the right questions.”

“There you go being a detective again.”

“Why’d you leave?”

I chuckle. “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. Whiskey. Of course. When I set the glass down, he’s smiling.

“I’m scared of cows,” I tell him.

“Try again.”

“I hate corn.”

“Not even close.”

“That town was too small for me.”

“Now we’re getting warmer,” he says, pulling out a cigarette. He offers me one which I gladly take, anything to wipe the taste of the whiskey off my tongue. I let him light it for me. His hands are close to my face in the flickering orange glow of the match and I see scars across his knuckles. Fine white lines like cracks in thin porcelain.

I take a small puff, blowing it out slowly. “Why don’t you tell me why I left and I’ll tell you if you’re right?”

He ponders his answer briefly. “There was nothing for you there.”

“All sixes. You should be a fortune teller. Shouldn’t you have read my palm to get that answer?”

“There’s nothing for you here either,” he says, ignoring my flippant attitude.

“There’s where you’re wrong. I have everything here.”

“Really? This is where you want to be forever?”

“No one is where they want to be forever. We’re all shooting for something else. Something bigger.”

He nods in understanding, blowing a cloud of white smoke over my head. “What are you shooting for?”

“The Cotton Club in New York,” I answer without hesitation.

“Then what? After that, where do you go from there?”

I shake my head with a frown, looking away from him into the ashtray between us as I flick the end of my cig. “Then nothing. That’s the dream. That’s it.”

“So that’s where your life will play out? You’ll live and die on a stage in Harlem?”

“Better that than settling down and popping out a bunch of brats, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“It’s not.”

“What about you? Where are you going?”

He takes a sip of his drink slowly. “Can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause to tell you where I’m going, I’d have to tell you where I’ve been, and that’s not a story I’m looking to share.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Did you tell me the story of why you left Iowa?”

“No. And I’m not going to.”

“Then it’s exactly fair.”

The club bursts into deafening applause. The band kicks in playing a rollicking song, and we both turn to watch as the kid takes his bows and exits the stage to a standing ovation. As the crowd dies down and the band shifts gears, diving into a slow number to give people a chance to mingle and grab drinks, I feel a light tap on my bare knee. I look at Drew, surprised to find him leaning toward me. Watching me.

“Maybe you should be a comedian,” he says softly.

I laugh, shaking my head. “You already are one.”

“You’re prettier than he is.”

“What is this? What are you doing?”

He shrugs. “Trying to make you feel better.”

“Well you’re awful at it.”

“I don’t usually do it.”

“I can see why. Anyway, who says I feel bad?”

He sits back and snubs out his cigarette. “You sighed.”

“I sighed?” I ask incredulously. “And you heard it over this crowd?”

He nods.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re very astute, aren’t you?”

“So they say.”

“Is that why they call you Birdy?”

“Uh oh. Be careful, kid,” he cautions as he rubs a hand over his mouth. The gesture almost looks nervous. “I warned you about that. Cute name equals—“

“Ugly story, I remember. So you’re not gonna tell me?”

“No.”

“I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“Then why not?”

Drew meets my eyes with his strange ones, and it might be a trick of the light or the hooch I’ve been drinking since lunchtime, but they look almost sad. “Because I don’t want you to know it.”

I nod thoughtfully. “You know what I want?”

“What’s that?”

Tossing my hat on the bar, I stand up in front of him, offering my hand. “I want to dance.”

I expect him to tell me to sit down. I expect him to laugh and shake his head, telling me he doesn’t dance. What I don’t expect is what I get.