Diva Read online

  Also by Jillian Larkin

  VIXEN

  INGENUE

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2012 by the Inkhouse

  Jacket art copyright © 2012 by Zhang Jingna

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Song lyrics: “I Ain’t Got Nobody” music by Charles Warfield and lyrics by David Young, published in 1914.

  “ ’Tain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do” by Porter Grainger and Everett Robbins, published in 1922.

  theflappersbooks.com

  randomhouse.com/teens

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Larkin, Jillian.

  Diva / Jillian Larkin. — 1st ed.

  p. cm. — (The flappers)

  Summary: When Marcus leaves Clara Knowles for another girl, Clara sinks into unhappiness and Lorraine Dyer tries to save Marcus from a loveless marriage, while their fellow flapper, Gloria Carmody, is hiding a deadly secret while living among socialites at Forrest Hamilton’s Long Island villa.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89912-6

  [1. Nineteen twenties—Fiction. 2. Prohibition—Fiction. 3. Social classes—Fiction. 4. Undercover operations—Fiction. 5. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.L323154Div 2012

  [Fic]—dc23 2011051797

  Random House Children’s Books

  supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  To Julie and Jenny—

  for filling our house with music and laughter,

  and for loving Carol Channing every bit as much as I do.

  (Raaaspberries!)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to acknowledge Lila Feinberg for her valuable contributions to the story and the characters of the Flappers series.

  Writing the Flappers series has been the cat’s pajamas, the eel’s hips, the bee’s knees. But just as the greatest jazz pieces of the Roaring Twenties could take months to write and seamstresses at Parisian fashion houses of the time might spend weeks on beadwork alone, this series has taken a lot of time and hard work. I never could’ve done it without a gifted orchestra behind me. Thank you to Ted Malawer and Michael Stearns at the Inkhouse for your faith in me. And thanks to Wendy Loggia, Beverly Horowitz, Krista Vitola, Lauren Donovan, Trish Parcell, and everyone at Delacorte Press and Random House Children’s Books—you’re all the berries. To my mother for reading every chapter of this book as I wrote it and making sure I knew which parts made you laugh. To Dan for your constant support. And to F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, for providing so much of the inspiration for these books and making me fall in love with the Jazz Age.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part One: Ain’t got Nothing

  Chapter 1: Jerome

  Chapter 2: Gloria

  Chapter 3: Clara

  Chapter 4: Lorraine

  Chapter 5: Gloria

  Chapter 6: Clara

  Chapter 7: Lorraine

  Chapter 8: Gloria

  Chapter 9: Clara

  Chapter 10: Lorraine

  Chapter 11: Gloria

  Part Two: Nothing to Lose

  Chapter 12: Clara

  Chapter 13: Lorraine

  Chapter 14: Jerome

  Chapter 15: Gloria

  Chapter 16: Clara

  Chapter 17: Lorraine

  Chapter 18: Gloria

  Chapter 19: Clara

  Chapter 20: Lorraine

  Chapter 21: Gloria

  Chapter 22: Clara

  Chapter 23: Lorraine

  Chapter 24: Jerome

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  JEROME

  All his life, Jerome had dreamed of crowds screaming his name. But this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

  “Jerome!” they yelled from outside, the sounds barely audible where he was standing—onstage with the rest of the band in the newest and hottest club in Greenwich Village. A strong spotlight shone in his eyes and a microphone craned over the keys of the glorious baby grand in front of him. The Chaise Lounge was the swankiest joint he’d ever played—and with places like the Green Mill and the Opera House on his résumé, that was saying something.

  “Come fight like a man!” called a fellow built like a freight truck.

  “Yeah, you lousy piker!”

  Some of the folks were visible through the brand-new glass windows, but most stood in clumps down at the corner of the street, blocked off by bodyguards and rope.

  “Spade punk!”

  Jerome winced. Even empty, the club gave off an air of smoky luxury. Black vines climbed up the flocked lavender wallpaper toward the high ceiling. A few autographed photos hung over the silky, wine-colored booths—candid shots of glamorous folks like film actress Barbara La Marr and boxing champ Jack Dempsey.

  There was no bar—the booze came up from the basement through a carefully hidden dumbwaiter in the back. But Jerome knew from experience that the Scotch around here was older than half the club’s patrons.

  Apparently, scandal was good for business. After that heart-stopping night at the Opera House weeks earlier, when Carlito Macharelli had died, clubs had been scrambling over themselves to be the first to showcase “notorious killer” Gloria Carmody’s colored beau. Jerome had never dreamed the Chaise would want him. A clear line ran through Manhattan at 110th Street, a line that blacks were supposed to stay north of. You had to be a star like Duke Ellington or Bessie Smith to be allowed to perform all the way down in Greenwich Village.

  And yet here Jerome was.

  Little Joe, the surprisingly fat manager, had been nothing but welcoming. “Take your time putting together something worthwhile,” he’d told Jerome. “I know everyone wants you because of your girl, but I want you because you’re also one of the best pianists in town.”

  So Jerome spent three weeks practicing with the band and knew they had a stellar show. Part of him wished Evan could have been his trumpet player, just like old times, but his friend was too busy making Jerome’s little sister, Vera, happy. And that was just fine—better than fine, really.

  His horn player, Roger, certainly wasn’t Evan, but he had a nice smoothness to his style. Jerome had thrown himself into arranging “Rhapsody in Blue” for the band to play at their debut. He’d caught one of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra performances of the piece over the summer and been thunderstruck. It wasn’t classical music but it wasn’t quite jazz, either—it was something new, something American. It could have only happened here. Just like him and Gloria. Jerome had promised himself that if he ever had the opportunity, he’d lead his band in his own take on the piece.

  The rest of his band was top-notch. But none of the pending success made up for how Jerome had gotten here in the first place: because his sweet, beautiful fiancée was in prison for shooting a man—a man who’d been about to shoot Jerome dead. He hadn’t been allowed to see her once since she’d been pried aw
ay from him.

  Now Gloria was stuck under glass, though hopefully not for much longer. Her cousin, Clara, had promised to use her column at the Manhattanite to rave at the injustice of it all until Gloria was released. In the meantime, Jerome planned to work as many gigs as he could. He wanted to save enough money so that somehow, somewhere, he and Gloria could get married.

  The Manhattanite had been selling like hotcakes these past few weeks. So many New Yorkers were rooting for him and Gloria. Jerome knew that many people were eager to see him play, but ten times that number were keen to hear Gloria. And those were the people he hoped would help free her from the big house.

  But this crowd was different.

  Jerome glanced out the night-darkened windows of the club again and saw that some of the people were holding up signs:

  RACE MIXING IS COMMUNISM!

  GO BACK TO HARLEM WHERE YOU BELONG!

  CHAISE IS FULL OF NEGRO LOVERS!

  And those were the nice ones.

  Jerome glanced at his band. “Looks like a different sort of audience tonight, fellas.”

  The men’s eyes flicked to the windows and back. No one said a word. Arnie, the young bassist, crossed himself.

  Little Joe waddled into the lounge from his office, looking natty in a custom-made black suit and matching bowler. He walked up to the windows and stood for a minute without moving.

  “Boss?” Jerome called. “When you want to start letting the birds in?”

  Little Joe turned and pulled off his bowler. He combed his fingers through the few gray hairs on his head. “Jerome, you’re a gifted musician—we both know that. And I don’t care about the color of your skin. Talent is talent. But this …” He looked back out at the protesters. “It’s not something my club can handle right now.”

  “What about the show?” Jerome asked.

  “Ain’t gonna be one. Not with that mob out there. We’d have a riot.”

  Jerome clenched his fists. Couldn’t Little Joe see that stopping the band’s performance was exactly what those monsters wanted? But then he glanced at his band. They were all breathing deep sighs of relief, and Arnie wiped sweat off his brow. The boy was barely old enough to shave. “I understand,” Jerome said with a curt nod.

  “C’mon, I’ll sneak you out the back. I’ll take you one at a time—that crowd’s bound to notice if you all leave at once.”

  Little Joe led Jerome into the backstage area, which was strewn with wooden chairs, half-empty bottles of hooch, and overflowing ashtrays. “I’ll wait while you get out of that straitjacket.” In the band’s dressing room, Jerome changed out of his smart white suit and back into his tattered trousers and short-sleeved button-down. His suit looked forlorn where it hung on the rack in the corner. He’d have to come back and get it later.

  At the stage door the manager counted a few bills from a fat roll. “Something for your trouble, kid.”

  A year ago Jerome wouldn’t have accepted it. He hadn’t even played! But money had been scarce since Gloria got locked up six weeks before. Thanks to Puccini De Luca’s arrest and Carlito Macharelli’s death, Gloria and Jerome had never gotten their promised payment for performing at the Opera House.

  And now this. Jerome didn’t know how he was going to make the rent at his roach-infested boardinghouse.

  So Jerome thanked Little Joe and crammed the bills into his pocket. Then he slipped out the back door and into the night.

  The stage door led to a deserted side street. Jerome pulled his hat down and turned left in the direction of the subway a few blocks away. He’d nearly reached the corner of the street when he noticed the man.

  The man was leaning against a car far too expensive to be parked anywhere in this neighborhood. He was dressed immaculately in a tan suit and blue silk tie, his graying russet hair shining in the light from the streetlamp. Jerome had only met the man once, but he’d have recognized him anywhere.

  Lowell Carmody. Gloria’s father.

  Jerome crossed the street and walked up to the fat black car. “Mr. Carmody, what are you doing here?”

  “Came to see your big show.”

  Jerome gestured down the street. “You’re welcome to join my eager fans.”

  “I’m a lot more welcome than you.” Gloria’s father squinted. “Looks like a few have figured out what happened to their favorite piano player.”

  Startled, Jerome turned and looked. The street was dark, and he didn’t see anyone. Then, before he realized what was happening, Lowell Carmody had opened the back door of the car and shoved Jerome inside.

  Jerome brought his hands up too late to stop his shoulder from hitting the car’s plush floor mat. Gloria’s dad picked him up by the feet and heaved him the rest of the way, then got in behind him and slammed the door. “Drive!” he barked out.

  The chauffeur shifted the car smoothly into gear and took off with alarming speed.

  Jerome climbed up from the floor and settled back on the leather upholstery. He found himself sitting across from a steely-eyed goon whose muscles strained beneath his black suit jacket. Lowell Carmody slid onto the seat beside Jerome. He fished a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, mopped at his face, folded the handkerchief, and put it away.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, sir,” Jerome said, “but what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Mr. Carmody said nothing, just turned and stared out the tinted window.

  With a resigned sigh, Jerome joined him in watching the world pass by. Minutes passed, then more minutes, and soon Jerome realized they were no longer in Manhattan. Instead of sleek skyscrapers, they were surrounded by sprawling, flat warehouses and rusty cranes and rigs. In the distance Jerome could see a skyline that was a sad imitation of what they’d left behind on the other side of the Hudson River. A clock hovered over one of the many factories, next to a billboard painted to look like an enormous tube of toothpaste, COLGATE emblazoned across it in big white letters.

  For so many musicians, playing in Manhattan was a dream—the hopping clubs, the twinkling lights. It was easy to forget that a smog-belching nightmare like New Jersey was so close by.

  Mr. Carmody finally turned to Jerome. “I’m tempted to just push you out of the car and have Elroy here shoot you.”

  Jerome swallowed hard.

  “But I don’t have to do that,” Mr. Carmody went on with a self-satisfied smile. “I’ve got the law on my side. I’ve had Gloria declared my ward, since she is clearly incapable of making her own decisions.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” They veered away from the main highway and their surroundings became increasingly rural, with rows of corn and dilapidated barns on either side of the road.

  “It means I control her life and her world. And you are no longer a part of it.” Lowell Carmody’s smile had turned sinister. “If you come near Gloria and I hear of it, I will have you arrested. I’ll have the cops throw you into a cell where no one will ever find you. Or I’ll have you killed.”

  Jerome looked desperately out the window, but the only signs of life he could see were a few matted, feral-looking barn cats slinking through the night.

  Mr. Carmody exhaled and glanced at Jerome with a smug twinkle in his eye. “That bigoted mob back there? That was my doing. I’m the one who leaked where you were playing to the Klan, and I’ll do it again, and again. Pretty soon there won’t be a club in Manhattan that will risk hiring you.”

  The car turned onto a barren stretch of road with nothing but dirt and dying grass on either side. “So from this day forward, you will have nothing to do with Gloria—or New York City—for the rest of your life. Or else I will make sure there’s no life for you to have. Understand me?”

  Jerome opened his mouth to respond—how could Gloria’s father be so cruel?—but Mr. Carmody waved him into silence. “I’m serious.” With a nod, he signaled the scowling thug sitting across from them. The goon seized Jerome’s arm with a hand like a steel cuff.

  “I can’t say it was nice to
see you, Jerome Johnson. Elroy?”

  The thug threw the car door wide open, banging it against the chassis so that it swung violently to and fro on its hinges. Jerome could hear the gravel crunching under the car’s tires and the wind roaring by. “This is where you’ll be leaving us,” Mr. Carmody said.

  Jerome thrashed as hard as he could against Elroy’s grip and managed to connect one of his feet with Mr. Carmody’s face. But then both men grabbed him and heaved, and then Jerome was airborne.

  He was aware of the door slamming behind him, aware of tires squealing and of the bright full moon above him, bathing the grubby marshland alongside the road like a spotlight … and then he hit the ground. Hard.

  He didn’t even have time to summon one last memory of Gloria before darkness engulfed him like a black velvet curtain rushing across a stage.

  GLORIA

  Cushy leather chairs didn’t belong in federal prison. But then, neither did Gloria.

  Surprisingly, her cell was a lot better than where she’d been living in Harlem. Her new desk was made of varnished wood rather than steel, she actually had a mattress with springs, and the three meals they brought her each day weren’t half bad. Before her mother went home to Chicago, Beatrice managed to use her connections to have Gloria moved from the county jail to a holding cell in the FBI headquarters. Thanks to her, being incarcerated was a lot less miserable than it might have been.

  Now Gloria sat at a long cherrywood table in an empty bureau conference room. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air. She wasn’t sure why Hank had called this meeting.

  Special Agent in Charge Hank Phillips walked through the door carrying his briefcase and a cardboard box. He wore his usual crisp black suit, white collared shirt, thin black tie, and smart pair of oxfords. His dark hair, light brown eyes, tanned skin, and muscled build made it easy to understand how her ex–best friend, Lorraine, had fallen for him.