Vixen Page 10

  She almost felt ashamed—maybe she was a little too flashily dressed, and maybe it was too much to flash her flask.

  A loud burst of applause pealed out from the house.

  Could Lorraine help it if she was driven to be stylish? To be daring where others were content to wear their mother-approved frills? Some women were naturally bold, and society responded only with jealousy and spite. Lorraine was that bold woman. Mrs. Carmody and her clique were the other sort. And that was their problem, not Lorraine’s.

  At least the night was crisp and clear and warm. She removed her fur stole and walked along the garden path. At the far end, she thought she spotted the tiny bud of a firefly’s light, flickering on and off. As she drew closer, she realized it wasn’t a firefly at all, but the lit end of a cigarette. And the person smoking it looked vaguely like—

  “Well, well, well—look who it is.”

  That privileged accent was unmistakable. Oh, Marcus, she thought, you and your impeccable timing. “I thought you had a boys’ night tonight.”

  “Yes, we were playing cards, but Christian got sick all over his jacks and that ended things early.” Marcus was draped in twilight shadows. Dressed in a white shirt and a dark suit, his hair slightly disheveled, he looked the part of the sexy rake in some movie like Valentino’s The Sheik, lurking outside the palace while his harem squeals.

  “It seems as if we’re both in exile tonight,” she said, strolling calmly toward him.

  “For now,” he said, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. He nodded toward the house. “Though I don’t think I can avoid the debs much longer.”

  “Don’t you mean they can’t avoid you?”

  “I think you’re talking about yourself.”

  “I’m clearly not a deb.”

  “I could tell by your skimpy outfit,” he said, dropping his cigarette onto the lawn and crushing it with his heel.

  “Why, Mr. Eastman, I didn’t know you had a thing for girls who cover up.”

  “No, you’re right, Miss Dyer, I much prefer scantily clad harlots like you.”

  At that, Lorraine gently slapped his cheek.

  As she pulled back her hand, he firmly caught hold of it, and her mesh handbag fell to the ground with a loud clunk. Neither of them moved. Lorraine could have stayed in that position for hours, staring fiercely into his eyes, the scent of his cologne mingling with the tangy autumn air.

  When he finally knelt to pick up her handbag, Lorraine was tempted to kick him down onto the wet grass, jump on top of him, and roll him into the mulch. But then last night’s awkward, rejected kiss at the Green Mill came to mind.

  So she just crossed her arms and let him work for it. “I may not be dressed like a lady, but I should still be treated like one.”

  “I know why I’m cooling my heels out here,” he said, “but care to explain why you’re not presently seated at the dining room table?”

  Lorraine tried to look casual as she explained. “My drink needed a bit of a fix-up, so I took out the fixer-upper I always carry with me.”

  “I didn’t know debutantes carried flasks,” Marcus quipped.

  “Yeah, you and Mrs. Carmody both,” she muttered. “Good thing I have backup.” She produced a second, smaller flask from her purse. “A deb must always be prepared for the best—and the worst—scenario. I believe that’s a direct quote from their little etiquette handbook.”

  “And what kind of scenario is this, exactly?” he asked.

  “One that requires bourbon.”

  She offered him a swig, but he raised a hand. “None for me. I’m on my way in.”

  “And I’m on my way out,” she said. “But you do know that it’s a deb ball, don’t you?”

  He smirked. “Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere else. But duty calls: the seduction of Country Clara.”

  “Speaking of, wait till you see Miz Clara in there—talk about un-flapper-able.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked with genuine interest.

  “I mean, for all her drink-is-the-devil and blueberry-pie-is-the-way-to-Jesus routine, that girl doesn’t flinch. At anything. Let’s not forget that our original plan was to stop Clara from getting in Gloria’s way. Speaking of Gloria, where is she tonight, you may wonder? At her own party? Which her mother is hosting in her honor?” she asked. “N.O. No!”

  “Raine, drop the dramatics,” Marcus said.

  “I’m serious, Marcus, there’s something up with Gloria. She usually tells me everything—”

  “Did you ever think maybe there’s a reason she’s pulling away? That maybe you’re being too clingy?”

  Clingy? Lorraine was an independent woman. If anything, Gloria had always clung to her. She and Gloria had been best friends since they were little girls! They did everything together! Or, at least, they used to.

  “If anybody’s clingy, it’s you,” she shot back. “I know how hard it is for you to see her with another man.”

  “You know Gloria is like a sister to me.”

  “Then maybe you should start acting like an older brother! She’s been sneaking around, hanging out at speakeasies—and all with that country-fried viper at her side.”

  “Oh, come now—Clara is hardly a viper.”

  “She’s a snake, and I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that she’ll betray Gloria’s secrets the moment she finds out about them. Unless you follow through on your promise to compromise Clara and get her to leave Chicago.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Marcus saluted. “I am nothing if not a man of his word.”

  So Marcus would rile Clara up and drive her away. If that happened, great—Lorraine would be free of Clara’s competition. She’d have Gloria and Marcus to herself.

  But even Lorraine knew it was unlikely.

  Which was why Lorraine had her own secret Plan B: Gloria was mysteriously off doing her own thing, and when Clara fell for Marcus—as she would; who could resist him?—Clara would need a friend, a confidante, someone to help her mend her broken heart. And whom would she turn to?

  Lorraine. As a sympathetic ear. As an ally. As Clara’s only friend in a friendless world. If Lorraine could get Clara to trust her, she would become Clara’s confidante. And once Lorraine had one or two of Miss Country Clara’s secrets hidden inside her Whiting & Davis mesh purse, then she would be the one with all the power.

  She could decide whom to ruin: Marcus, for failing to see the incredible woman standing right in front of him, ready to love him; Clara, the know-it-all bit of buttermilk biscuit who’d swooped in and stolen the spotlight; or Gloria, her best friend, who’d had everything handed to her on a silver platter her entire life and was still so greedy that she was running off behind Lorraine’s back and not even bothering to tell her about it.

  Raine straightened the collar of Marcus’s shirt and let her hands lightly graze its buttons. Which made her think of last summer at Gloria’s beach house, when she had caught him changing into his bathing suit. How she’d wanted to run her hands over his tan and muscular torso, squeeze his arms, thumb the groove where his angular hip bones led down to his—

  Marcus pushed her hands away, saying, “Stop fussing.”

  One step at a time, Lorraine. One step at a time.

  No matter. Soon people were going to notice her. Soon she was going to shine.

  GLORIA

  Without the glittering flappers and wild dancing, the bright lights and blaring music, the Green Mill turned back into what it really was: a dank basement. The dance floor seemed shrunken beneath the empty stage, and a damp chill hung over the room. It stank of stale liquor and too many cigarettes, like an ashtray full of butts. Sort of disgusting.

  Gloria tried to focus on the lyrics of her audition song, but her mind kept reeling back to where she wasn’t: home. The deb dinner. Her mother. The guests. One-third of the battle was already won: She’d snuck out of the house without getting caught. She’d borrowed her mother’s car. Now she just needed to deliver a killer performance and ge
t back before dinner was served.

  Easier said than done, of course: It was already 8:04 p.m. And Jerome Johnson, sitting in the middle of the room with the rest of his band, had yet to acknowledge her presence.

  This was all a huge mistake.

  When she’d first arrived, she’d been shocked to find the dingy stairwell lined with a half dozen girls all there to audition.

  How stupid she felt. What did she think, that they’d just plucked her out of a crowd and it was a done deal? These girls looked like professionals who could sing better than Gloria even when they weren’t trying. As she walked past them, she could feel their ambition rising up off their bodies like cheap perfume. There was a glint in their eyes that said I want this more than anything.

  Luckily, when the trumpet player had leaned out into the stairwell to call in the next girl, he’d recognized Gloria. “I’m Evan,” he said. “From the other night. Why don’t you come on in?”

  Now she was sitting at the bar inside the dark room. A row of chairs had been dragged onto the dance floor in front of the spotlit microphone. From here, Gloria could make out six men in the chairs, lazy trails of smoke rising from their cigarettes, hats tilted as they whispered about what was going on onstage.

  Because yes, she had to sit there while other girls auditioned before her.

  And they were all good. Really good. Write-this-girl-up-in-the-Tribune-and-alert-the-scouts good. They belted out high notes for days and made singing seem like second nature.

  Gloria had tried to warm up her voice in the car on the ride over, but it was hard enough for her to drive into the city by herself without getting totally lost. Now her throat was so dry she kept swallowing, which was only making it worse.

  “You look like you’re about to keel over, Red,” Leif said, sliding an amber-filled tumbler across the bar. He scratched his slightly crooked nose and then the top of his head. “Drink this. Little trick of the trade to calm the nerves.”

  Bourbon. What she really needed was a cup of tea. But she followed the bartender’s orders and downed it, then coughed and gasped as the alcohol seared her throat.

  Just in time for her turn. “Miss Carson? Miss Carson!” a voice called out from the front of the room.

  “You’re gonna knock ’em dead,” Leif said, winking.

  “If I don’t die first.”

  Gloria made her way to the stage, her knees wobbling. Was she deluding herself? She loved singing, but maybe her voice was meant for her alone, and not for an audience. Whom was she fooling?

  She handed her music to the piano player. “ ‘Will You Love Me in December?’ ” he said. “Ain’t played that one in a while.”

  She quietly tapped out the tempo for him. Then she approached the microphone. The spotlight was harsh, and she could barely make out the faces of the men in the audience: Evan the trumpet player, the drummer, the bass player, two mobsters, and in the center, Jerome.

  “Let’s see what you got, country girl,” his velvety baritone voice called out. Which made the knot in her stomach even tighter.

  Later that night, when Gloria reflected on these next five minutes of her life, she would have no clear memory of them. She would remember hearing the piano begin to vamp. But she would not remember singing to the six men in the chairs at the lip of the stage. When she sang …

  “You say the glow on my cheek, sweetheart,

  Is like the rose so sweet,

  But when the bloom of fair youth has flown,

  Then will our lips still meet?

  When life’s setting sun fades away, dear,

  And all is said and done,

  Will your arms still entwine and caress me?

  Will our hearts beat as one?”

  … it was all for herself.

  Scattered, distant clapping brought her back to the stage.

  Then the lights came up. Jerome was in the middle of his band, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on her; he didn’t say a word. On either side of him, the other men all looked bored. One sighed loudly.

  Gloria didn’t know if that was her cue to get off the stage or to stay. So she stood there, paralyzed.

  Finally, the bass player spoke. “Look, baby lark, you got a real sweet voice. Like honey. Not to mention, that hair of yours in the light looks like it’s on fire. But”—he gave her a sympathetic smile—“you just don’t got the sound we’re looking for.”

  Baby lark? She put her entire life on the line just so some wet blanket could call her baby lark?

  “What sound are you looking for, exactly?” Gloria asked into the microphone. “Just out of curiosity.”

  “You got this real breathy, intimate quality,” the bass player continued. “But we’re looking for a girl who can really wail.”

  “Oh, trust me, I can. Want me to try another song? I didn’t bring my book, but I can sing a cappella—”

  “You’re too green, kid. Just like I thought,” Jerome said. “Plus, you didn’t sing ‘Downhearted Blues.’ Guess ya didn’t have it in ya.”

  His words pierced her like a poison dart. She had wanted to prove him wrong, to show this holier-than-thou musician that she was a singer. An artist. Not just some silly schoolgirl. So what if she lacked what these other girls had, their big sounds and bigger presences? Gloria had something different. More seductive. Something audiences would listen to, not just dance over. But apparently Jerome Johnson didn’t think so.

  Gloria stomped off the stage and headed straight for the door. Halfway across the floor, she turned, looked directly at Jerome, and said, “Just so you know, I didn’t sing ‘Downhearted Blues’ for a reason.”

  He smirked. “And what’s that?”

  “I don’t give my best stuff away for free,” Gloria said.

  Then she turned back around and headed for the exit.

  “Well, for my two cents, I thought you were a star up there,” Leif said as she rushed past the bar.

  She didn’t even stop to thank him. She just wanted to escape, before the lump in her throat melted into fresh tears. She’d read the magazines and the stage biographies; she knew a singer’s life was about rejection after rejection. She could handle that.

  But there had been a cruelty in Jerome’s tone, as if no matter how stellar her performance had been, she’d still never have been good enough.

  She sucked in a deep breath to carry her past the girls in the stairwell and pushed against the exit door.

  “Hey, Red! Bring your sweet little caboose back over here! Now!”

  The voice hit her in the back as she was midway out the door. The mobsters she’d noticed before were now standing at the table. They looked young, probably mid-twenties, with shiny hair and immaculate suits. They oozed confidence, and something else that made her nervous. Menace.

  She turned and walked back to the table. At times like these, she hated being a redhead: She knew her skin was probably all blotchy and ugly, revealing everything. Thank God the lights were down.

  Besides the occasional clink of glasses, the room was awkwardly quiet as they watched her approach.

  “You forgot your sheet music.” The handsomer of the two men held out three crinkled pieces of paper. She vaguely recognized him from the night before.

  Gloria cringed. Her music. Of course, this was why they were calling her back! What had she been thinking? “Oh, thanks,” she muttered.

  She reached out to take the sheet music from him, but he snatched it away.

  “Not so fast,” he said.

  Was it really necessary to humiliate her more than she’d already been humiliated?

  “So, you want this gig, Red?” He dangled the paper in front of her. “How much do you want it?”

  “I want it that badly,” she snapped, reaching for the music again.

  “Whoa. We’ve got a feisty one here.” He let her music flutter to the floor. “Just how I like my singers.”

  Gloria bent down to collect the papers—probably just a cheap trick to get an eyeful. The floor had a stick
y film of souring alcohol. As she picked up the last sheet, she noticed his shoes. They were covered with spatterdashers—spats like her father wore, little buttoned gray collars men used to keep their shoes clean. Even this man’s spats looked expensive: They were silky and shiny and embroidered with a big M.

  M for Macharelli. Of course. Carlito Macharelli, playboy son of the infamous Mob boss.

  Reality struck like a match in the dark: She was a little rich girl, trapped underground, with black musicians and notoriously vicious mobsters. What had she gotten herself into?

  “She’s not ready, Carlito,” Jerome said, breaking the silence. “Imagine when there are a few hundred people crammed in here, corked and shouting. Her voice is too small—it won’t carry.”

  Carlito exhaled his cigar smoke into Jerome’s face. “She’s got something.” He looked Gloria up and down. “Something fresh. I like her.”

  “Yeah, I like her, too. I like her plenty. But she needs to strengthen her vocal cords, build up her endurance. She’s got no technique and no experience.”

  “Then you got a lot of work ahead of you, Johnson.”

  Jerome’s eyes darkened. “What does that mean?”

  “It means she’s your responsibility now. Get her ready. Train her. You’ve got two whole weeks. That should be plenty of time.” Carlito dropped his cigar into Jerome’s drink. “You’ll see. The inexperienced girls are always the fastest learners.”

  Jerome opened his mouth as if he was about to protest further but said nothing. Instead he rubbed his jaw and shot Gloria a venomous glare.

  Gloria knew she should be ecstatic—she had gotten a job as a singer, for God’s sake—but how was she going to sneak out of her house every night? How was she going to skip school for voice lessons?

  But those were the least of her worries. Getting out of the occasional class at Laurelton with some forged doctor’s note was not the issue. Being a rich white girl with a notable family fronting an all-black band? In an illegal speakeasy? What if Bastian found out? Surely his banker friends went to the club. Now, that she should be worried about.