Ingenue Part 10

aThat would be great,a Hank said. aThough maybe we should buy our own bottle. Wouldnat want to get my girl into any more trouble.a He picked up his crate. aNow, where should I put this?a His face was calm and impa.s.sive, as if he hadnat just called Lorraine his girl. Had she imagined it? No, no, she definitely hadnat. Hank had called her his girl! As in his girlfriend! She broke into a smile that felt too big for her face. It was a smile a million Puccinis couldnat steal from her.

aLorraine?a Hank asked. aInstructions?a Lorraine pointed to the top of a pyramid of crates. aCan you reach up and put it up there?a Effortlessly, Hank lifted the crate high. As he did, the bottom of his jacket rode up, and Lorraineas breath caught at what she saw on his hip: a leather holster, not unlike the one Carlito always wore. And it wasnat empty.

aWhat are you doing with a gun?a she almost shrieked. aYouare not a gangster, are you?a She didnat know whether she could take finding out that the one decent man shead ever met was yet another member of the Mob.

Hank put down the crate and took her in his arms. aNo, Raine, of course not!a He kissed her quickly. aItas for self-protection. I just get nervous, being surrounded by mobsters every day.a He smiled. aBut this joint ainat so bada"aside from selling booze, it seems to be on the up-and-up.a Lorraine almost laughed at his navet. aHardly!a Hank c.o.c.ked his head. aWhat do you mean?a She lowered her voice. aYou know Ernesto Macharelli?a aOf coursea"Al Caponeas right-hand man?a Hank said. aBut heas in Chicago.a aNot entirely. He and his son are bankrolling this joint!a aHuh, Ernesto Macharelli laundering his money in New York City. Now, how does a girl like you have information like that?a Lorraine and Hank stepped apart as Spark walked into the room without knocking. aWe got kind of a problem,a he said.

Lorraine waved him off. aWhat I do with my employees is my business.a Spark snickered. aAw, I donat care about that. I was talking about the singer and the piano player? They ainat exactly getting along. I think one of aem is going to walk.a aWe canat let that happen!a aI was thinking maybe a word from you might help.a aMe?a Lorraine coughed violently. aNo! What they need is a bonus! Go out there and offer them a bonus.a Spark glared. aWhat they need is the fear of G.o.d in aem.a Lorraine pushed Spark toward the door. aDo it.a aWhatever you say,a he answered, backing out of the room.

aWhatas going on?a Hank asked once Spark had left.

aI canat tell you,a Lorraine said, and dropped her gaze. She was wearing nice shoes. Pale-blue heels decorated with beaded flowers that were trimmed with rhinestones. aI mean, Iad like to tell you, but I really canat. I mean, I shouldnat. Unless you really want to know. And then I can tell you, but youave got to give me your mosta"No, I canat.a Hank shrugged. aOkay, thatas fine. Iall go get the rest of the s.h.i.+pment.a aFine!a she said. aYou donat need to twist my arm.a Lorraine told Hank the part of her story she hadnat told him out on the water in Central Park: how Carlito had set her up with the job so that shead trap Gloria and Jerome. aJerome murdered Tonya"probably in cold blooda"and that killing started this whole mess.a Hankas eyes were wide when she finally finished. aLorraine, you need toa"a The door creaked and Spark burst in.

aDonat you know how to knock?a Lorraine yelled. How dare he interrupt such a private moment? aWhy do you think G.o.d invented doors? Or knuckles?a aIam sorry, Raine, but apparently they donat want their bonus, because the girl just ran off in tears.a aWhat? You idiot!a Lorraine screamed. aGo get her right now!a Spark huffed and walked out nowhere near as quickly as he should have. Lorraine stormed out right behind him. What if Spark couldnat catch Gloria? She had promised to deliver both of them to Carlito. And gangsters didnat play around where broken promises were concerned.

She burst into the barroom and plowed straight into someone. aWatch where youarea"a He looked thinner and hungrier than he had back at the Green Mill, and his features were sharper at the edges. He was still beautiful, thougha"at least, beautiful for a black man.

aPardon me,a he said, giving her the polite but uninterested smile people gave to strangers.

Jerome didnat recognize her.

He had only ever seen her at the Green Mill, where she had looked very different. Now, because shead been supervising the booze s.h.i.+pments since the morning, and her s.h.i.+ft would be over before evening, she wasnat really glammed up. Instead of a flashy sequined number, she was dressed in a simple blue Patou day dress.

And, since Hank had made his under-the-rowboat comment about how nice she looked without makeup, she had started wearing less.

She opened her mouth to say something and found herself coughing.

aAre you all right?a Jerome asked. Before she knew it, he had sat her down on a bar stool. aThis lady here is choking!a Hank was suddenly there, striking Lorraine on the back. She coughed violently and leaned into Hank, trying to ignore the skinny, hungry reality of Jerome beside her.

Hank looked up at Jerome. aYou should go. You really donat want to be here right now.a aWhat?a Jerome said.

aIam serious. Get out of here. Now.a aYou donat need to tell a fellow three times,a Jerome muttered, and marched to the stairs.

In despair, Lorraine watched him go. If she told one of the boys to run after him now, there might still be a chance of catching him. But she couldnat get her breath to speak up.

Whenever shead imagined Jerome in her head, shead seen a hardened criminal. A killer with cruel eyes and a scowling mouth. But Jerome didnat look like a coldhearted killer. Not in the way Puccini and Carlito looked like killers. Their eyes were flat and dead. But Jeromea"hungry as he looked, his eyes had the glint of life in them.

Someone handed her a gla.s.s of water.

Bernie, the trumpet player, cleared his throat. aSo, uh, is rehearsal over? We canat do much without a singer or a piano player.a Lorraine nodded vigorously. aYeah, you all should head home. Just practice a lot before Sat.u.r.day. Zuleikaas debut should be the best thing our audience has ever seen, got it?a She took a drink of water so that she wouldnat have to talk anymore.

Puccini strolled out onto the barroom from the office. aRehearsalas over so soon?a aIt is,a Lorraine said, and took another drink of water.

At that moment, a group of men came down the stairs. At the front was Carlito Macharelli, looking debonair in a black pin-striped suit, a fedoraas brim bent over his dark eyes.

aCarlito,a Puccini said. aWasnat expecting you soa"a Carlito raised a hand. aWeall catch up in a minute, Puccini.a He slid over to the bar. aIf it isnat Miss Dyer,a he said, looking her up and down. aDonat you clean up nice in the big city.a aThanks,a Lorraine said, s.h.i.+vering. aYou look nice ta"a aYouare gonna talk to me now, punk, and youare gonna get this idiot girl out of my hair. Sheas makina a mess of my club and Iam sick of it!a Puccini said, loosening his tie.

aCalm down, Puccini,a Carlito said in his usual smooth voice. aIam sorry to saddle you with such a dumb Dora. You have no idea how much my father appreciates this favor. Though I donat think head be so pleased if he knew how your crew botched the Grokowski job last month.a Puccini looked as shead never seen him before: terrified. aI donat see how thatas got anything to do with this,a Puccini said.

aYou wouldnat,a Carlito said, patting his shoulder. aPuccini, please: Just keep her a little longer, eh?a Puccini glared at Lorraine. aAll right. But sheas making her curtain call here, understood? Finito.a As soon as Puccini shut the door of his office behind him, Carlito said, aMay I have a moment, Lorraine?a aSure,a Lorraine said, and he sat down next to her at the bar. aIam guessing you received my telegrams.a Carlito looked surprised. aNo, actually. I was just tired of waiting around and figured Iad drop in to check on you. Whatas the update?a Lorraine smiled. aGloria and Jerome were here together!a aGreat!a Carlito said, rubbing his hands on his thighs. aWhere are they now?a Lorraine let out a nervous laugh. aThatas the thing. They were here, but now theyare a gone.a aGone?a aGone,a Lorraine repeated, nodding.

There was silence for a moment, and then Carlito screamed, aTheyare what?a His arm snapped out and he grabbed Lorraine by the sailor collar of her dress. Behind him, Lorraine saw Hank coming forward, but she flicked a hand at him to leave her alonea"he would only make matters worse.

aYouare telling me that you had the two of them right here and you let them slip away together?a Carlito asked, dragging her close so that their faces were almost touching.

aThey didnat technically leave together,a Spark contributed from behind the bar. aThe singer ran out about twenty minutes ago, and then the black boy left about ten minutes later.a Carlito stared hard at Lorraine. aYou couldnat find an excuse to keep even one of them here?a He pushed her away, and she fell off the stool.

aHey!a Hank said, but Carlito glared at him and he didnat say anything more.

Lorraine tried to get up, but Carlitoas s.h.i.+ny black shoe came down on the hem of her dress. For the first time since head arrived, Carlito was smiling.

aOh, Raine,a he said, fingering the silver pistol at his hip. aWhat am I going to do with you?a CLARA.

It was the afternoon after the party, and Clara was a wreck.

aSo you see, it was all for the magazine,a she said, stirring cream into her third coffee of the day. aIam still the same person, Marcus.a Marcus flipped through the copy of the Manhattanite. It was the issue with the first of her aGlittering Foolsa columns. She had begged him to meet her at Lindyas for lunch so that she could explain why she had lied to him and gone to Twiggy Sampsonas birthday party.

Head reluctantly agreed.

Marcus finally pulled his eyes away from the magazine, but only to look at the large slice of strawberry cheesecake sitting between them. aDonat you want any?a Clara usually adored Lindyas cheesecake, but today her stomach turned at the sight of it. Instead, she reached across the table and put her hand on Marcusas arm. aWhat are you thinking?a Marcus pushed the magazine aside. aI just donat know why you kept this a secret from me.a She traced the edge of her coffee saucer with her spoon. aI didnat think youad approve. I worried that youad think I was falling back into my old life.a aAnd back into Harris Brownas arms?a aMarcus, I told youa"nothing was going on. That was the first time Iad seen Harris since Chicago. I was just saying h.e.l.lo.a aClara,a Marcus began, taking her hand, aI believe you. And I was being honest when I told you I was proud of you and your writing. Itas a courageous thing, putting your work out in the world. I love it that you dare to try. And I love you.a Then his smile faded. He wasnat going to let her off easy. aBut I am worried about the effect of all these parties on you. Why not go to Barnard and get a real education instead of some fly-by-night reporter job, gossiping about a life youave worked so hard to put in your past?a aBut thatas just it, Marcus,a Clara replied. aThat flapper world is the same, but Iam different.a aAre you? You got about two hours of sleep last night. And from the way youave been picking at your food, Iam betting youave got a h.e.l.l of a hangover.a aGuilty as charged.a aAnd isnat there a tiny part of youa"the merest bit, the smallest parta"that is glad youave got the magazine as an excuse to fall back in with your old wild crowd?a aOf course not!a Clara said, but she had hesitateda"only a moment!a"and Marcus noticed.

He glanced down at the magazine. aI thought that when we came to New York, wead a I donat know, have a life together. But sleeping all day, partying all night, saying whatas clever instead of whatas true a Manhattanite or no, there are real consequences to living that way, Clara.a aI know, buta"a aI thought you wanted to be different,a Marcus continued as though she hadnat said anything. aI thought you wanted a better lifea"one that didnat center around boozing and puking and sequined dresses and speakeasies.a He paused. aI thought you wanted a life with me.a aI do,a Clara said emphatically. Marcus was the best thing that had ever happened to hera"head showed her that it was possible to love again after so much heartache.

aNo, you donat. You wouldnat be pulling these kinds of shenanigans if you did. Thatas not how you treat someone you love, Clara. Itas just not.a Clara gazed at the other happy couples, the mothers and fathers and children eating lunch, the waitresses strolling around with soft drinks on round trays, all of them exactly who they appeared to be. But Clara? Who was she?

How ironic: When she had lived her life doing what men expected of her, she had lost herself. And now that she was finally doing something that was entirely her own, she was losing the man she loved.

aCome with me,a she said, almost without thinking. aBe my sidekick.a aThatas not the point,a Marcus said. aI used to like partying, too, but Iave seen the downside. What happened to you, what happened to Gloria and Jerome a to Lorraine. There comes a time when you need to get serious about something.a He sat up straight. aIam serious about school.a Clara narrowed her eyes. aAnd Iam serious about my writing.a aGood,a Marcus replied. aThen study writing at Barnard. Go after something more than twenty column inches about some ditzy flapperas birthday bash. This kind of stuff wonat last.a He lifted the magazine for a moment. aThere are some witty lines in here, Clara. You have real talent. You could do so much more.a aThis is just how Iam getting my start,a Clara answered.

aItas easy to say that now. It wonat be so simple five years down the line when youare an established gossip columnist with editors lining up to pay you for drivel.a He pushed himself up out of the booth. aIf you want to write, write about something that matters. If you want to write trash, then find someone else to love, because I wonat be waiting around.a Maybe they were silly and frivolous, but Clara was proud of her columns. She put a lot of work into them. And people talked about them. They were good. Was it wrong to feel pleased about writing something that people actually enjoyed reading, rather than something they read because they wanted to look smart and sophisticated?

Parker would never say these things to her, Clara found herself thinking. Parker believed in her, in what she was doing. At least that was something.

Marcus laid some bills on the table. aI have to go to this charity gala at Sherryas tonight at eighta"my motheras on the board of the Chicago branch. Iad love for you to be my date, though Iall understand if youave got other plans.a He smoothed his hand over his amber hair, then pulled on his straw trilby. Clara sighed. Her writing was important, but was a society column really more important than Marcus?

She put that decision out of her mind for now. Marcus was offering an olive branch, and she knew she would regret it if she didnat grab it. She forced herself to smile. aIall see you there.a aGood,a Marcus told her. aBecause Iam not only serious about school, Clara. Iam serious about you.a After head left, she let her pretend smile disappear.

This was h.e.l.l.

About the only thing Clara had said all evening was athank youa when complimented on her champagne-colored dress. The flowing skirt came down to her ankles, and the loose sleeves that draped to her elbows were hardly flapperesque. The dress was lovely and safe. All the matrons at the party loved it.

Marcus was in the corner of the room, laughing over an anecdote that could in no way be that funny. Not in a million years.

Between them was an obstacle course of linen-covered dining tables, each with a set of oldsters in tuxedos and ball gowns loudly guffawing and smacking their lips as they ate hors da"uvres and drank lukewarm lemonade.

It was already ten oaclocka"Clara wanted out of there. Shead been hoping to stop by the office to drop off edits on the Twiggy Sampson story. Parker usually stayed at the office until midnighta"he was more of a workhorse than Clara wouldave guessed.

Finally, Marcus caught Claraas eye. He looked beautiful in his tux, clean-shaven, every strand of hair Brilliantined perfectly in place. aHaving fun?a he asked. For the second during which his eyes met hers, this was the most fantastic party shead ever attended.

aSure. I could use actual food, though. What do you say we blow this s.h.i.+ndig and grab a real dinner?a He shook his head and went off to talk to yet another middle-aged society woman.

aWell, Iam hungry,a she called after him. She spotted a waiter carrying a tray of shrimp and headed that way.

In her rush, she almost took down a young woman in a silky red gown. aOh, Iam so sorry,a Clara said, catching the woman by the elbow. On anyone else, the gown would have been too loud for polite society, but with her large hazel eyes and flawless skin, this girl looked like a fas.h.i.+on plate.

But her beauty wasnat what was surprisinga"Clara had seen this girl at the Green Mill. aForgive me if this sounds strange, but have you ever been to Chicago?a The girl smiled and, if anything, became even more beautiful. Her features were familiar: large eyes and mouth with a tiny nose, a wispy blond bob, sooty black lashes.

aA few times.a The girl extended her hand. aMaude Cortineau. Nice to meet you.a Maude cut her big eyes back and forth, then pulled a delicate little flask from her red clutch. She took a swig, then held it out.

Clara accepted the flask and took a quick sip. aThanks. So howad a party-loving girl like you end up at a boring event like this one?a aBy accident!a Maude gave a gurgling little laugh, and Clara realized that she was completely splifficated. aI came to New York with my boyfriend but got dragged to this by my aunta"sheas on the committee.a Clara looked out on the room. aSo which oneas your boyfriend?a Maude hiccupped. aOh, Carlito wouldnat be caught dead at this sort of party.a aCarlito? The gangsteras son?a Clara asked, her mind racing. This girl probably knew a lot about the Mob underworld.

Maude nodded. aThatas my boy. The Big Cheese.a aOh, heas so handsome,a Clara said. aWhy arenat you off with him?a aHeas working right now,a Maude whispered. aHeas here to aclean house.a a She took another swig from her flask.

Clara tried not to show her excitement. aThat sounds very mysterious.a aIt is! Well, not reallya"someone killed one of his gang.a Maude fished a cigarette out of her purse. aPeople think it was the Green Millas piano player, but thatas because Carlito is ashamed that it was a girla"some c.r.a.ppy torch singer who only sang the one time before her husband came and dragged her off. Sheas got a new gig at the Opera House now.a A waiter walked by. aOoo, look, finger sandwiches. I love those. Anyway, nice meeting you, Cora.a Maude walked off after the finger-sandwich-bearing waiter.

Gloria, her Gloria, had killed someone? Claraas first instinct was to laugh. But that certainly explained why Gloria had left town in such a hurry. If Jerome had been in danger, nothing would have stopped her cousin from protecting him.

Clara found Marcus talking to a decrepit old woman who looked as if shead been roused from the grave for this party. Clara pulled him over to the corner of the room.

aThat was rude, Clara,a he protested.

aJust listen to me for a minute,a she said, quickly relaying everything Maude had just told her. aAnd to think I was just trying to get a juicy story out of Maude.a Marcus caught Claraas arm in a firm grip. aClara, you cannot write about this. Give me your word that you wonat. Gloria will be arrested, Jerome will be killed. G.o.d, you might even be killed, too.a aOf course I wonat,a Clara said. aI a wasnat even thinking of that.a But now she was thinking about it.

Wasnat Marcus being a little hypocritical? He gave her this high-and-mighty speech about writing something more than society drivel, and now when shead found something truly serious, he was basically forbidding her to write about it? That didnat seem fair. There would always be real consequences to writing these kinds of storiesa"that was what made them news. There would be people she might hurt, grim truths she would bring to light that might better have been left buried. It seemed that nothing she did in her writing career would make Marcus happy.

Clara swallowed. What would a real journalist do?

Fifteen minutes later, Clara breezed through the front door of the Manhattanite offices. A black janitor was mopping the lobby floor. He tipped his hat to her and kept at his work. She flashed her press pa.s.s at the desk guard, got into the elevator, and rode it to the fourteenth floor.

She wasnat disappointed when she saw light seeping out from underneath Parkeras office door. She knocked lightly. aParker? Itas me, Clara.a aCamon in,a he called.

Clara had been here a fair number of times nowa"shead written three aGlittering Foolsa articles, including the Twiggy Sampson story, and she met with Parker to receive her a.s.signments and her edits afterward. But those meetings were always during the day.

Parker was sitting in front of his typewriter with handwritten pages scattered around him and a nearly empty mug of coffee. Instead of his usual impeccable suit and tie, he just had on a white s.h.i.+rt and nondescript trousers. Daytime Parker was handsome and stylish, but Clara was surprised to find that nighttime Parker was downright s.e.xy.

From the way he was staring, it didnat seem as if he minded the way Clara looked, either. aWhere are you coming from? Couldnat be worka"a flapper wouldnat be caught dead with a hemline that low.a aYou donat like it?a aI didnat say that. You look sensational.a He gestured with his coffee mug. aIad offer you a cuppa joe, but this is the last of it. Iave been drinking for about three hours.a Clara laughed. aYouall be up all night! Too much caffeine.a Parker blinked. aIsnat it normal to stay up until six in the morning?a Clara gave another laugh. aNo, I donat think it is.a aAh well. I guess I need a woman around to tell me these things.a Clara didnat know how to respond, so she awkwardly pulled her article out of her bag. aI thought Iad drop these edits off. Sorry I didnat get a chance earlier.a aItas fine.a He looked at the clock on the wall. It was ten to midnight. aAnd technically youare still on time, so thank you for that. Letas go over this.a She hadnat been expecting Parker to review her work in front of her. aNow?a aWhy not?a Clara knew she should go home and get some sleep. But Parker had never wanted to go over edits together before. So she walked around the desk and sat next to him. Their chairs were close; their legs were almost touching.

Clara leaned back regally in her chair and laced her fingers behind her head.

aWhat are you doing?a Parker asked.

Clara grinned. aJust seeing what itas likea"you know, sitting behind the desk instead of in front of it.a He laughed. aKeep going at the rate you are now and you could be sitting here someday. Although I donat know how youad expect your reporters to remember any edits you give them, not with those big blues of yours to distract them.a She blushed. aYou really think I could be an editor?a aSure. Youave got an eye for what matters in a story, and youare not sentimental. Youave got a flair for sharp language. And youare willing to work hard for what you want instead of accepting marriage to some Harvard millionaire. Not that the fellow wouldnat be a lucky man aa He trailed off, his green eyes radiant. aIs there a, uh, lucky fellow in your life?a aI, um aa Yes, there is a lucky fellow and his name is Marcus! her mind screamed at her. But the words wouldnat come. aYouare getting awfully personal, arenat you? I thought you were all work and no play.a A strand of his wavy dark hair fell into his eyes. aI love to play, as long as I have a good partner.a Claraas stomach started to swirl. She felt guilty for not telling him about Marcus. But things were complicated. aLetas get started.a Clara felt a bit of a rush as Parker read over the column. He laughed in the right places, and his cuts made her writing sharper than it had been before.

aA gin bath!a Parker said. aReally?a Clara only burst into embarra.s.sed laughter. It was nice to joke with someone, the way she and Marcus used to.

After about forty-five minutes, Parker rubbed his temples and said, aAll right, I think weare done here. Good work.a He picked up a photo of Twiggy that would run alongside the article. aIall tell you this mucha"she has nothing on you, doll.a A silence settled between them, and Clara stood up. The compliments were nice, of course, but it was time to leavea"before anything happened that shead regret. aI should probably go.a Parker stood up as well, trailing behind her to the door. aI guess Iall go wrestle with the coffeepot,a he said. aIave got an idea for a story and I donat want to lose it.a Parker would never judge her for staying up all night to write her stories. Unlike Marcus, he would encourage her to follow every exciting lead she came across. aYou know a I got information on what could be a great story.a aOh? You want to pitch it to me?a aIam not sure if I can,a Clara said, suddenly feeling nervous. aI have some, uh a moral questions about writing it.a He leaned closer. aWhat do you mean?a aThe story involves someone close to me. And publis.h.i.+ng it could possibly hurt her. What do you think I should do?a aIam a journalist,a Parker replied. aThe only morality that matters to me is the truth.a He took her shoulders in his hands. aWhat about you?a She could see in his eyes that he wanted to kiss her. His fingers trailed over her shoulders, under her hair, and toward the nape of her neck. Before she had even thought of what she was doing, her own hands had settled on the soft white linen of his s.h.i.+rt. She could feel his trim torso through the cloth, only a thin layer of material separating her skin from his. She could feel her chin tilting upward, her lips parting in antic.i.p.ation.

Then Marcusas face flashed into her head.

She jerked away. aI have to go.a She clumsily slung her purse over her shoulder. aHave a good night.a Parker started to speak, but Clara was already out the door, in the elevator, watching as the doors closed and she was alone with her thoughts, the warmth of his breath still lingering on her cheek.

VERA.

aWelcome to the Ritz-Carlton, miss,a the doorman said. aMr. Demartino is waiting for you in the dining room.a The doorman was only a little older than her and looked a bit like Evan, making her stomach lurch.

Vera had never been inside such a luxurious hotel. And clearly, the hotel had never seen a young black woman in an evening gown. Vera was quite conspicuously the only black person in the joint who wasnat dressed like a maid or a bellboy.

aThank you,a she said. She had never had more than a couple of dollars to her name; shead never received anything but hostility from the sorts of folks who stayed in fancy hotels like this one.

Her black heels sank into the scarlet plush carpeting. The entire lobby glowed with money and refinement, and she could feel the rich white peopleas eyes boring into her with each step she took. Past the elevators were the restaurantas gold-handled gla.s.s doors.

If Vera hadnat been so worried about Evan, she might actually have enjoyed herself.

Inside, the matre da at the podium scowled. Then his face split into a broad, cold smile. aYou must be Mr. Demartinoas special guest.a Vera nodded. What did he mean by special guest?

The matre da picked up a menu. aRight this way, mademoiselle,a he said in a fake French accent.

Vera followed him to a table at the back of the restaurant. Of course the gangster wouldave warned the Ritz staff that he was meeting a black woman for dinner. That was why they were welcoming her instead of slamming the door in her face.

Men with guns and power tended to have that kind of effect on people.

But tonight the tables were turned. Vera had a gun in her purse and a mission, and n.o.bodya"especially not some two-bit mobstera"was going to stop her from rescuing Evan.

Demartino was sitting at the farthest table in the restaurant. He had a huge booth all to himself. He looked as if he was in his early twenties. His ma.s.sive body looked uncomfortable in a formal suita"this man belonged in a plain s.h.i.+rt and pants with suspenders.

aYouare not the gal I asked out earlier,a Demartino said, but his confusion quickly changed into a sick grin. aThough Iam not complainina. Youare an even choicer tomato than the other one.a That was exactly why Vera had worn her most expensive sleeveless black dressa"a gift from an admirer at the Green Mill. It was a Madeleine Vionnet, and the sheer silk chiffon felt luxurious against her skin. Shead accessorized with the (real) pearl necklace her father had spent ages saving up to buy for her mother and a matching (fake) pearl headband.

Vera returned Demartinoas smile. A jagged scar started between the middle and index fingers of his right hand and ran up under his cuff. Shead never met him, but she knew this gangsteras nickname from the Green Mill: Hatchet. He was a high-level goon of Carlitoas.

So that was whoad s.n.a.t.c.hed Evan.

aMollyas boyfriend didnat want her out with another man, even one as handsome as you,a Vera cooed. aSo I volunteered to come in her place.a She sat and leaned her elbow on the table. aIt works out pretty well for everyone, since Iave got a favor to ask.a Demartino lit a cigarette. aWhatcha need? Some dough? Daddyas got you covered, baby lamb.a Vera ignored the fact that a lamb actually was a baby sheep, so it made no sense to refer to her as a baby lamb. aI need you to take me to Carlito Macharelli.a He snorted. aOh, thatall be a good one to tell my buddies later. Ha! Take her to Macharelli,a he said to no one in particular, dragging heavily on his cigarette. aHa! Too funny. Youare a hoot, baby lamb. A regular owl.a Vera didnat laugh. aIam serious.a After a moment, he stopped laughing. His smile got bigger. aNo way.a He straightened his jacket. aNow, if ya ainat here to have a good time with me, Iam off ta find someone who will.a aWait!a Vera said.

aSweetheart, Iam doing you a favor,a Demartino said. aCarlito donat take kindly to anyone demanding anythinga"not even good-looking dames like yourself. He may be young, but heas tough, and heas got a lotta muscle behind him. Baby boyas got a big daddy, and even I donat mess with that. Now scram.a He started to scoot out of the booth.

aBut Carlitoas here to find Gloria Carmody and Jerome Johnson,a Vera said coolly. aAnd I know where theyare holed up.a Demartino slid back into the booth. His face looked a little panicked. aWhat do you know about that?a aYou grabbed the wrong person this afternoon. Evan? He doesnat know anything. I know where Jerome and Gloria are living,a she lied. aBut Iall only tell Carlito myself.a She stared at Demartino until he looked away. aYou still want me to scram?a aWhy would you want to tell Carlito? Iam a h.e.l.l of a lot friendlier.a aItas Carlito or n.o.body. So whatas it gonna be?a Demartino lifted a hand to flag down the waiter. aI need to use your telephone.a The waiter nodded. aRight away, sir.a aWhatas your name, doll?a Demartino asked.

aVera,a she replied.

aWait here.a Demartino followed the waiter out of the restaurant.

Veraas hands shook. She pressed them flat on the table. What if he was just calling some goons to come take care of her? He was the only lead she had. How else would she find Evan?

She sighed in relief when Demartino returned with the waiter. aGet a cab for me and the lady. Weare going to Rickas Steakhouse, midtown.a Rickas Steakhouse was packed, the small tables pushed tightly together and a fog of cigar smoke filling the room. There were no women in sighta"every guest was a man in a flashy suit. Several of the men had scars on their faces, and even the ones who didnat had the look of hardened criminals. Carlito and his men must have picked this place as their base of operations while they were in New York.

aHey there, honey!a one man yelled at Vera when she pa.s.sed. aI was just gonna ask for some coffee with my desserta"guess now I donat have to!a Vera clutched her beaded purse a little closer and tried to ignore the catcalls as Demartino led her to the back of the restaurant.

A group of four men were playing poker around a square table and smoking cigars. The one with a mountain of red chips in front of him was none other than Carlito Macharelli himself. His hair was slicked back, his gray suit perfectly tailored, and his face starkly handsome in the arrogant way of someone who is never told no.