A Dangerous Engagement

by Ashley Weaver

  “I don’t embarrass easy.”

  My eyes caught his. “No. I don’t imagine you do.”

  I realized that I might be precariously close to some sort of boundary. I had not come here expressly to flirt with Mr. De Lora. In fact, I had been determined not to do so. I had to admit, however, that, if one wasn’t careful, it might be shockingly easy to fall into the habit.

  “Perhaps I should start at the beginning,” I said.

  “By all means.”

  He took a gold cigarette case out of the inside pocket of his suit and offered one to me. I declined, and he lit his up.

  “I’ve just moved to New York,” I said.

  He waited. It was one of the quickly discernible traits that marked him as dangerous, I realized: this calculated way he waited and watched. He might look like a man at ease, but there was in him the latent menace of a tiger poised to pounce.

  “From Maine. Things have been difficult, and I hoped that I would be able to make a better life for myself here.” I had to remind myself not to volunteer too much information. It seemed to me that filling the silence with useless detail was the best way to get in trouble later.

  “Whereabouts in Maine?”

  I realized again in that moment how poorly thought out my plan had been. I knew very little about Maine, and if he knew more than I did I was going to be found out.

  “Augusta,” I said, seizing upon the only city in Maine I could think of. “Though I grew up a bit on the outskirts. I’m afraid I’m something of a country girl at heart.”

  He smiled, though his eyes remained unreadable. “You don’t look like a country girl to me.”

  “Thank you.” I drew in a breath as though building up the courage to make a confession. Then I plunged ahead with the story I had formulated. “The truth is, I’m a reporter. That is, I want to be. I’m trying to get a job with the society columns, but anyone can write about parties, and plays, and society events. I thought it might be interesting if I wrote about something a bit more … exciting.”

  He smiled. “You thought they’d be interested in the criminal element.”

  “Well, you’re awfully interesting, Mr. De Lora.”

  He blew out a stream of smoke, watching me with those dark eyes of his. “I think you’re pretty interesting yourself.”

  I affected a flustered smile and then continued. “I knew it was a gamble coming here, but I thought I should up the ante,” I said, silently thanking Winnelda for recommending that I include some gambling parlance in my dialogue. “If you’d just give me a bit of information, I’m sure I could make an interesting story out of it.”

  “I usually have reporters thrown out of here on their ear,” he said. His eyes ran across my face. “But your ears are too pretty for that.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever had someone compliment my ears,” I said with a laugh.

  “Well, I’ve always been a bit unconventional.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it,” I said.

  “Why are you really here?” he asked suddenly.

  I looked at him, wondering if he had discovered something about me. Had my accent given me away? I had been relatively confident that I could keep up a consistently American cadence, but perhaps he had noticed that something was amiss.

  “There are any number of—shall we say—reputable places in this city where a nice young woman might have gone for a story,” he went on. “Why is it that you came here, trying to fit in in an element that doesn’t suit you?”

  He was perceptive. Somehow, I hadn’t expected that. Of course, I imagined one didn’t grow to become a successful criminal without having good instincts. As with any other enterprise, there was an element of talent involved.

  “I … I don’t know. I just…”

  I was saved by a sudden movement at the door nearest the band, and a woman stepped out onto the dance floor, illuminated by a single light.

  She was a beautiful woman with flawless dark skin, marcelled black hair, and lustrous brown eyes. She wore a beaded gold evening gown that set off a marvelous figure.

  And when she began to sing, I was mesmerized. Her voice was low and sultry, every note perfectly pitched, but there was more to it than simple training. There was something in her tone that could not be learned. I felt as though I was being transported to a different place, as though her voice was carrying me into a dream.

  For a moment I forgot where I was and listened as she sang the lyrics—a sad song about love and loss—infusing them with depth and meaning that I had never heard in this song before. It was a rare gift.

  “She’s good, isn’t she?” Mr. De Lora said.

  I dragged my attention from the singing woman to look back at him. “She’s marvelous.”

  “Her name is Esther Hayes. People come a long way to hear her sing.”

  “I can see why.”

  We sat in silence after that until the song ended. Esther Hayes finished her song and disappeared from the room amidst a swell of applause. I was brought back to the present by Mr. De Lora.

  “Look, baby. You’re a sweet kid, and I’d like to help you, but I don’t know that I should tell you anything.” I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with him. In fact, I had the impression that he was very close to bringing this interview, such as it was, to a close. I needed to do a better job of charming him.

  “I don’t expect you to tell me about what goes on behind closed doors around here,” I said. “But isn’t there some sort of a story you could give me? Some angle that may be of interest to my society readers? Please, Mr. De Lora. Won’t you help out a country girl?”

  He took a drag from his cigarette and seemed to contemplate the question. I wondered if he was considering throwing me out of his establishment after all.

  At last he spoke.

  “I do have a bit of a scoop for you.”

  “Oh?” I wondered just what it was he was going to reveal. I hoped that he would not ever ask me what paper he could find this story in. I had the feeling he would be annoyed if he were to discover I had been lying to him.

  “Yeah, I’ve been looking into getting a new line of business.”

  I found this surprising, and it must have showed on my face.

  He smiled. “Well, ‘new’ in a manner of speaking. I’m looking at opening a few nightclubs. Prohibition’s on its last legs. I’ve known that for the last couple of years, and I’ve had my eyes on bigger and better things. The real money has never been in bootlegging, at least not for me.”

  “Which is why you don’t serve moonshine and bathtub gin?” I asked with a glance toward the well-stocked bar.

  “You’ve got a sharp eye for a country girl,” he said, leaning back in his seat. There was something calculating in his gaze, but he went on without a pause. “I’ve served my share of moonshine, but competition’s stiff and I find it tedious. No, I’ve found there’s a market for the good stuff. And it can be had for the right price. Once Prohibition ends, there’ll be a lot of people looking to have a good time out in the open.”

  I found myself a bit disappointed. It was not that I had expected him to suddenly reveal that he had had something to do with the death of Grant Palmer, but I had at least hoped for something that might be able to lead the conversation in that direction. Telling me that he was considering going into legitimate business was not very exciting at all.

  “This is all very interesting,” I said, hoping I sounded as though I meant it.

  “Maybe you should write some of it down. Don’t you carry a notebook?”

  He was watching me carefully, and I wondered if he had realized that this was all a ploy. I had thought it was an excellent ruse, but I was quickly learning that Leon De Lora was no one’s fool.

  “I thought it might make me conspicuous.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Baby, it’s hard to be conspicuous in a place like this.”

  I glanced around. I supposed he was right. It seemed that there were people fr
om all walks of life congregated within these walls.

  I turned my attention back to him. I knew he had been purposefully putting off my questions, but I was determined to play the part of a dogged reporter and that meant pressing him for answers. If we had to start with his idea for a nightclub, so be it. Perhaps then I could win some of his trust and he would let something slip.

  Looking at those dark, unreadable eyes, I somehow doubted he was the type of man to ever give something away unintentionally, but I could always hope.

  “I don’t need a notebook at present,” I said. “Tell me more about your nightclubs.”

  “I plan to open the first one here in New York, of course, but I’d like to expand beyond that. Maybe even internationally, if it works out.”

  This was not at all what I had been expecting. I had come here to talk to an American gangster, not a handsome entrepreneur with an eye for expanding his existing enterprises.

  Perhaps it was a good thing. Perhaps it meant that he could be cleared in the death of Grant Palmer. After all, if he was indeed set on leading a legitimate life once Prohibition had run its course, it wouldn’t do for him to commit a murder at such a pivotal time.

  Then again, I had the feeling that Leon De Lora always did exactly as he pleased with very little worry about consequences. And there was always the possibility that Grant Palmer had posed some impediment to this plan, created enough of a problem that Mr. De Lora thought it must be eliminated.

  “Have you … selected a site for the new nightclub?” I asked. I was trying very hard to think of questions a newspaperwoman might have under just such circumstances, but I was finding it a bit difficult. I realized I was disappointed that this man might not be the murderer I was seeking, and I had to reconfigure my existing preconceptions.

  “I’ve got a few places I’m eyeing,” he said. “Nothing set in stone at the moment.”

  “Do you really think Prohibition will be repealed?” I asked.

  “It’s as good as done. The whole thing’ll be over by the end of the year.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll be glad to be able to live a life without the threat of the law hanging over you.”

  I wondered, as I said the words, if I was pushing things too far, but he didn’t seem to think so.

  A smile tugged at his lips. “The law has never made much difference to me one way or the other.”

  I wondered what it was like to live life that way, with a careless disregard for propriety or societal boundaries. I had always been the sort of woman who tried, for the most part, to stay within the lines that had been drawn for me. But I had encountered a great many people who had challenged those boundaries, and some of them had been murderers. Was this man a killer?

  “I suppose that will be very profitable for you,” I said, trying to keep my questions focused.

  He shrugged. “I’m making money, and I’ll keep making money.”

  I opened my mouth, prepared to formulate another question, when a man made his way to the table. He had the same weathered, dangerous sort of face I’d noticed on the other employees here at De Lora’s, and I was reminded that Leon De Lora might give the impression of handsome sophistication, but there was still something a bit less refined beneath the surface.

  Mr. De Lora looked up at the approaching gentleman. “What is it?” he asked in a tone that indicated he didn’t appreciate the disturbance.

  “We … uh … got a little issue, boss,” the man said, his gaze flickering to me and back to Mr. De Lora. “Something you might need to take care of.”

  I glanced in the direction from which the man had come, to catch a glimpse of the “issue”: someone in a state of advanced inebriation, perhaps, or a fistfight, which seemed somehow likely in a place like this. But there was nothing, no disturbance visible through the haze of cigarette smoke.

  I glanced back at Mr. De Lora. It was difficult to tell what he thought about this request. He seemed neither alarmed or, indeed, interested, but after a moment’s pause, he reached to grind out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and slid out of the booth.

  “Sorry to run out on you, Rose, but duty calls.”

  “But I…” I tried to think of some way to finish the sentence. After all, he had already given me more information than he would likely have given to anyone else, the “scoop,” he had called it.

  He stood there a moment, waiting. When I said nothing more, his brows went up ever so slightly. I realized this might be my only chance; if he slipped away from me now, perhaps I might not have another opportunity to speak to him.

  And so I decided to be bold and push ahead. “I was hoping to get more details from you … for my story.”

  He seemed to consider this for a moment, and then he gave a short nod. “Come back tomorrow night. Maybe I can tell you more then.”

  “I … all right,” I agreed.

  It was just then that Esther Hayes came back into the speakeasy from a door set to one side of the wall. I saw her eyes settle on Mr. De Lora, and he motioned her over.

  “Good evening, Mr. De Lora,” she said when she reached us. Then she nodded at me. “Ma’am.”

  “This is Esther Hayes,” he told me. “Esther, this is Rose Kelly, a new friend of mine.”

  “How do you do, Miss Hayes,” I said. “I really enjoyed your performance. Your voice is so lovely.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Rose is writing an article. Answer some questions for her, will you?”

  “Of course, Mr. De Lora.” Miss Hayes’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes flicked to him briefly, as though trying to ascertain his motives. There was something very guarded about her, and I had the impression she wasn’t very pleased with the idea of speaking with me.

  He turned then without another word and was gone, following the other man through the maze of tables, the men who had stood near our booth trailing out after them.

  Esther Hayes stood looking at me.

  I motioned to the seat he had vacated. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  She sat, a few of the gold beads on her gown clattering softly against the wooden table as she slid into the booth.

  “What questions can I answer for you, Miss Kelly?” she asked. Her speaking voice was as pleasant as her singing voice, low and soft.

  “How long have you been singing here?” I asked, trying to break through the barrier that seemed to exist between us.

  “A year. Maybe a little longer.”

  “And you enjoy working here?”

  “Very much.”

  “As Mr. De Lora said, I’m writing an article about him for my society column,” I said, pushing ahead. “What can you tell me about him?”

  She looked at me warily. I wondered if she might be afraid of her employer. If so, I couldn’t exactly blame her. From everything I had heard, he was a dangerous man. I knew that loyalties in this world were not just a matter of employment in a difficult economy; they were a matter of life and death.

  “He’s very handsome,” I said. “I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting someone so young and attractive.” I thought this might, perhaps, give the impression that I was a somewhat silly young woman who wanted a gossip piece. While it was not exactly the impression I wished to cultivate with Mr. De Lora, I thought it might be the best way to build camaraderie with another woman.

  Again, her eyes searched my face. She seemed to be considering her answer, and when she spoke I was surprised by her reply. “He’s a better man than he’s given credit for being.”

  I might have suspected this was a lie, or the careful answer of a woman who had a good deal to lose, but there was something about the tone of her voice as she said it that made me think she believed what she was saying.

  “He’s been kind to me,” she went on. “I haven’t had an easy life, and Mr. De Lora gave me a job when a lot of places wouldn’t.”

  “But your voice is magnificent,” I said without thinking. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to
hire you.”

  She looked at me, her expression wry. “To a lot of people, the color of the skin is more important than the quality of the voice.”

  “Of course,” I said, realizing the stupidity of my comment. It was sometimes easy for me to forget the privileges of the life into which I had been born.

  “But Mr. De Lora hired me as soon as he heard me sing. And he’s looked out for me. A lot of men wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” I said, my opinion of him improving based on this information. She was certainly right that there was more to him than met the eye.

  Of course, this did not excuse his criminal activities. But it made me think that, perhaps, there was something kinder beneath the menacing persona he presented to the world.

  I considered asking her about Grant Palmer but decided against it. I didn’t think she would be likely to tell me anything. After all, I was a strange woman asking probing questions. What was more, I had a feeling that Mr. De Lora would ask her later about the content of our conversation, and I didn’t want to show my hand just yet.

  “He tells me he’s interested in opening some nightclubs. Would you continue to sing in one of his establishments?”

  “Maybe,” she said vaguely.

  I realized that the conversation had lagged. She was watching me, waiting to see what I would say next, and I suddenly found I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  She seemed to sense this. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Kelly,” she said. “I have to prepare for my next number.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

  She nodded, the corners of her mouth rising slightly in what was not quite a smile. And then she rose and walked slowly away.

  I sat alone in the booth for a moment, considering everything. I hadn’t exactly learned anything of importance, but I couldn’t help but feel that I had definitely made progress. After all, he had agreed to see me again. I would just have to come up with some way of steering the topic around to Grant Palmer tomorrow night. Perhaps I could even say that I had read it in the newspapers. It was a risky thing to do, but it might be a chance I would have to take.