by Kari Bovee
“Mr. Riker told me he and your husband had worked together.” Grace wondered again if it was the type of work that had put Nicky Arnstein in Federal prison.
When she received no reply, Grace glanced up at Fanny in time to see a distant pain flit across her face. Grace knew in an instant that she’d brought up a tender subject. She knelt down and busied herself with the hem again.
“Chet was an apprentice to a private detective who owned a small agency,” Fanny explained. “The guy treated him like a son. When the PI was killed, Chet took over the business. But he was young, and green . . . like you.” Her eyes twinkled as she looked down at Grace. “Nicky hired him to dig up some information on a potential business partner. In the meantime, Nicky got himself in trouble and was sent to prison, leaving Chet out of work. Chet joined the army soon after, and it was probably the best decision he could have made. A young man shouldn’t get mixed up with the likes of Nicky.”
Grace’s fingers froze. She was surprised that Fanny would speak of her beloved so. She allowed her gaze to trail up the dress and rest on Fanny’s face, where a mysterious smile lingered.
“Hey, my Nicky is a wonderful man, but he’s got some bad habits and he keeps company with the wrong kind. Chet wanted to be just like him.” Fanny’s voice caught, as if she was going to say something else and then decided not to. She cleared her throat and placed her hands on her hips, skewing the hemline. Grace had to stop again. “You like him, don’t you?”
Grace accidentally stabbed herself with one of the pins, flinched, and brought the injured finger to her mouth. “Well, I don’t really know him. I was just curious.”
“Hmm. I see.”
Grace stood back and surveyed the nipping and tucking she’d accomplished with the pins. “I think you’re finished,” she said, silently chastising herself. What did she care of Chet’s activities, criminal or not? It really had nothing to do with her. And she had no right to ask Fanny anything that might upset her. Flo wouldn’t be happy if Fanny started to complain about a fresh seamstress who’d only recently been promoted to junior designer.
“I feel like a pincushion.” Fanny’s smoke-riddled voice distracted Grace from her thoughts. “Get this thing off me, will ya, kid?”
Grace unhooked and unbuttoned the gown and then held the garment while Fanny slipped out of it.
Fanny wrapped herself in a satin dressing gown and walked over to the lavish vanity filled with rouge, lipsticks, and powders, and a massive collection of fancy perfume bottles. She sat down and fiddled with the shiny earrings hanging from her earlobes.
Grace gathered her sewing items into a pile, still thinking about Sophia and Jack, and Chet and his relationship with Nicky. Fanny’s narrow-set, dark eyes were trained directly on Grace.
“Listen, kid,” Fanny said. “You’re a real beauty, but you’ve got brains and talent, too. Take it from a broad that’s been around the block a few times: don’t throw it all away on a handsome face. It ain’t worth it.”
Grace felt another flush of heat in her cheeks. Had she been so obvious about her attraction to Chet? She’d have to be far more careful. In fact, she had to stop thinking about him altogether.
Grace laid a hand on Fanny’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Miss Brice, Chet Riker is way out of my reach.”
Chapter Nine
MAY 20, 1920 - NEW YORK CITY, NY
Flo slammed the latest copy of Variety down on his desk so hard it made Chet flinch. Chet picked up the discarded paper as Flo paced back and forth behind the desk, the cigarette never leaving his mouth, his hands crammed into his pockets. He was like a moving stick of burning dynamite ready to blow.
Chet looked down at the paper and read:
Train Robbery Thwarted, Suspects Still At Large
Billie Burke, famed actress and wife of Broadway impresario Florenz Ziegfeld Jr. creator of the Ziegfeld Follies, was the target of an attempted robbery aboard the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway. On her way to California to star in a motion picture, Miss Burke was awakened in the night when two men attempted to break into her private railcar. Conductor Stan Bartholomew intercepted the would-be burglars and chased them through the train until the two men escaped by leaping off the moving train. By the time the engineer was alerted and the train stopped, the men had vanished . . .
Chet raised his eyes from the article to see Flo glaring at him, cigarette still clenched in teeth, hands on hips. “What the hell, Chet? How’d this get botched?”
“I don’t know what to say.” Chet’s mind swirled with questions as to what could possibly have gone wrong.
“I have zero funds to start a new show. I need a show.” Flo pinched his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, and yanked it from his lips, not even bothering to expel the swirling cloud of smoke hovering around his mouth and flaring nostrils. “This new girl, Helga, isn’t working out. People don’t like her. She’s too cold, too . . . German. They want Sophia. I need a new show and I need a new Sophia, and that takes money.” Flo bent over the desk, braced himself with his arms, and peered hard into Chet’s eyes. “For heaven’s sake, tell me what happened! How the hell could you screw up such a simple heist?”
Chet shifted in the chair. “Look, Flo, I didn’t feel comfortable doing the heist. I am trying to make it as a private investigator, not a thief. A couple of guys owed me a favor, so I put them on it. This is all news to me. I gave them explicit instructions, thought they could follow them—”
Flo leaned over the desk and stuck a finger in Chet’s face. “You’re fired! I can’t afford mistakes like this.”
“It made the paper,” Chet said, grasping at a bright spot in the debacle.
“For one day, in a small clip on page seven that few will read. I needed a story with legs, with heat, one that would stick around for a while. Damn it, Chet, the whole idea was to keep the Follies at the front of everyone’s mind.” Flo mashed his cigarette out in a filigreed sterling silver ashtray on his desk. His eyes settled on Chet’s.
Chet knew if he looked away first, he would be admitting failure. But he couldn’t help secretly feeling relieved that the boneheads had botched the heist. The idea had been foolhardy from the start. Known for his outrageous ideas, Flo had a talent for fabricating stories that created headlines—and an uncanny way of managing to keep his nose clean. For Chet, any connection to a jewelry theft could tank his credibility, and PIs who lacked credibility went under. Fast.
Chet inhaled deeply, a slow, comforting realization sneaking into his thoughts and quelling his anxiety. “You can’t fire me.”
“I think I just did.”
“This attempted robbery won’t be traced back to me. I have information on those two clowns that would bury them. Even if they get caught, they won’t implicate me. But, it could get traced back to you.”
Flo shrugged. “I don’t know how.”
Chet leveled a stare at Flo and could see his intimation sinking in. Chet had him. He hated to blackmail his way into keeping a job, but he didn’t have a choice at the moment. He watched as Flo leaned back into his chair, his posture wilting, resigned to the truth.
“I’m sorry, Flo.” A pang of regret stabbed at Chet. “Really, I am, but you give me no choice. I have my own problems. I need money, and I need it fast. I’ve got Marciano breathing down my neck.”
“Joe Marciano?” Flo raised his eyebrows and fished around in his coat pocket for his cigarette case.
Chet snorted. “Is there any other? Look, my mother needed an operation. I gambled to make the money but lost miserably. I borrowed from the house and won enough for her operation, but not enough to get straight with the gambling hall. Marciano called me in and gave me a month to get square—and that month is nearly up. Marciano’s not someone you string out, Flo. He’ll kill me and not lose an hour’s sleep over it.”
“Aren’t we a pair?” Flo ran his hands along the mahogany desk and exhaled loudly. He opened the sterling silver case, drew out a cigarette, and pointed it at Ch
et. “You know, Joe Marciano and I go way back.” He lit a match and held it to the cigarette in his mouth.
“I did not know that.”
“We have a mutual . . . well, one could say a mutually complicated relationship. Sometimes we hate each other, and sometimes we tolerate each other. Joe’s mother worked as a maid at my father’s music school. Sometimes Joe would come with her to work when she couldn’t find anyone to watch him. His father had abandoned them years before.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Many beautiful girls lived at the school, wanting to cultivate their vocal and musical talents. I guess that’s where my love for them was born.” He raised his eyebrows at Chet and a wry smile crossed his lips.
More like lust, Chet thought.
“The girls were merciless with poor Joe. Shy, awkward, not the best-looking fellow, the girls teased and taunted him, and I joined in whenever possible. Pathetic really, not very kind, but I was a kid and intent on impressing the girls. His mother became ill eventually and left the school. I didn’t see him for a long while, but I later learned about him and his illustrious life of crime. It wasn’t until Felicity Jones came along that I saw him again, though.”
“Felicity Jones.” Chet let out a puff of air. “I knew a Felicity Jones when I was a kid. Colored girl, blue eyes?”
Flo nodded. “One of my headliners. Stunning, talented, and boy, that woman could sing.” His eyes drifted to a corner of the office, as if he’d gotten lost in a memory.
“What happened?”
“He stole her from me. Said it was to get back at me for laughing at him all those years ago.”
“He took her?”
“In a manner of speaking. He lured her away. By that time, Marciano had made his riches and he used them to promise her the world. Never very comfortable on the stage, she took him up on his offer. Assumed she’d be on easy street from then on.”
Chet stretched out his legs, feeling much more at ease now that the discomfort of their original confrontation had waned. “And since then?”
“Joe tries to lure away a lot of my girls. Sometimes he succeeds. I think he gets a kick out of taking them from me. It irritates me to no end, but what can I do? I offer the girls fame, riches, and a place in the Ziegfeld family. But sometimes they choose other things.”
Flo stubbed out his cigarette and then steepled his hands under his chin. Chet waited. He could see something brewing behind Flo’s aging, muddy-brown eyes. “You let me handle Joe.” He pointed a finger at Chet. “I have an idea.”
Chet entered the theater through the main doors, trepidation building in his gut like a pile of sand being sifted into a quarry. Even thinking about the showman’s past schemes made Chet’s hands sweat. What kind of chicanery would ensue now?
He entered the main lobby at 1:00 p.m. sharp, as instructed by Flo. A barkeep served drinks to a few tuxedoed gentlemen and bejeweled ladies. Otherwise, the place was empty. Flo popped out from one of the side theater doors, also wearing a tuxedo.
Chet, in his only suit, felt underdressed. “What’s going on?”
“Just a little party. I invited Marciano to watch the rehearsal for the show. He’ll be here any minute.”
“But why the bar? The elegant clothes?”
“It’s all part of the fantasy, my man. I know how Joe thinks. He had nothing as a kid—the son of a maid, living hand-to-mouth. Now he’s wealthy and powerful, and he likes to be reminded of what all that money and notoriety buys him. I’m simply feeding his ego, trying to soften him up.”
“What are you going to propose?” Chet hated having to ask.
Before Flo could answer, two hefty men with muscles bulging out of their suits walked through the doors of the theater and then stopped to hold them open as wide as they could go. Joe Marciano entered, wearing a ridiculous black velvet smoking jacket and white silk ascot. The flash of gold and diamonds on Marciano’s pudgy hands distracted the eye from his oily, misshapen face. Chet stifled a smirk.
“Joe.” Flo walked up to shake the man’s hand. “Welcome to my theater.”
Marciano grunted, and his eyes shifted to Chet. With feet like lead, Chet walked over and offered his hand. He felt the metal of Marciano’s rings press into his palm as the mobster squeezed harder than necessary.
“It’s been awhile, Mr. Riker. The clock is ticking.”
Chet’s gut gripped with hatred, but he nodded, of course, and forced a tight-lipped smile.
Flo stepped between them and turned Marciano’s piercing glare toward the stage. “Rehearsal has just begun.” Flo ushered Marciano down the aisle, where several rows of chairs had been removed. In their place stood a table dressed with a white tablecloth bearing ice buckets filled with expensive champagne, the finest crystal glasses, and a large dish of caviar with crackers attractively presented.
“I hope you like Russian caviar and French champagne, Joe.”
“It’ll do.”
Marciano’s bodyguards took two of the theater seats close by. Chet, Flo, and Joe sat at the table, and a voluptuous redhead wearing bright red lipstick and a kelly-green satin gown joined them, promptly scooting her chair closer to Marciano. As his eyes traveled from her ample breasts to her full lips, she offered her hand, and he kissed it.
Suddenly, the charade made sense: a staged production to get in Joe Marciano’s good graces—and his wallet. Flo obviously knew that Joe would be a sucker for expensive food and champagne, even if he didn’t take a single bite or a single sip of it. Everyone knew Joe liked big breasts and women who made him feel like a big man.
Music came from the orchestra pit.
“This number is called ‘The Trousseau,’” Flo said, waving his arm toward the stage. “Enter the singing lingerie salesman.”
Chet knew of this popular number: A lingerie salesman displays his designs on an oversized pad of paper, and a girl comes onstage wearing the item. Each time he turns the page, the more revealing the garment becomes. When the salesman shows a drawing of a naked woman, the cowboy Will Rogers enters, bedecked in all his Western finery. It never failed to please and always garnered a hearty round of applause.
Marciano’s eyes flicked from one girl to the next as they paraded across the stage. Chet could hear the man’s breathing quicken and his lips smack as he licked them. During the finale, when Will Rogers stepped out onstage, everyone but Marciano clapped. Instead, he remained quiet, scowling. He was obviously disappointed he didn’t get to see a naked girl.
Flo turned to Marciano. “What did you think, Joe?”
“I think you’re up to something, Ziegfeld.”
“Oh, Joe, come on now.” Flo laughed, pulled a chair closer to Marciano, and sat. He lifted his chin toward the cast, signaling for them to exit the stage.
“What is it? What’s up your sleeve?” Marciano’s face looked like a thunderstorm brewing.
“I would like to offer you an opportunity to co-produce one of my shows.” Flo beamed at Marciano. “A new show. A great show. A really high-class production with lots of beautiful showgirls in stunning costumes—something that will knock everyone’s socks off.”
Finally, Marciano’s face split into a grin, the same menacing grin Chet had seen on the fat man’s face in the restaurant three weeks ago.
“You would, would you? And why is this?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Joe. I need money. Big money. I need someone like you to finance it. And I personally picked you because I know you like to be the talk of the town. This show, Joe,” Flo sat up straight, raised both arms, as if to keep Marciano in his seat. “This show will be in all the newspapers across the country. Hell, we’ll even put your name in lights.”
Whoa, he’s overselling, Chet thought, stifling a frown. Flo would never let Marciano’s name appear on one of his marquees.
Marciano nodded and drained his champagne glass, a satisfied gleam in his eye. The redhead draped herself over his arm and shoulder. He glanced at her breasts pressing against him and then turned back to
Flo.
“What’s Riker got to do with this?” Marciano and Flo both looked at Chet.
“I’ll pay off Chet’s debt to you, if you agree to finance the show. I’ll give you every penny from opening night and then fifty percent of the profit for the run of the show for the entire run. If it’s as good as I know it will be, that will be a long time—months, perhaps a year.”
“Why are you making good for this low-level goon?” Marciano tilted his head toward Chet.
“He’s working for me. He’s hit on some hard times—his mother got sick and he paid for her surgery, Joe. Unfortunately, he had a few gambling losses that put him in a bind with you. I’m willing to make it right—in exchange for your generosity.”
Marciano’s attention drifted to some of the scantily clad dancers who’d sauntered back onto the stage. They stretched their long limbs, practicing dance steps under the stage lights, accentuating their shapely figures and their see-through costumes. Marciano visibly drooled. The redhead took the opportune moment to run her hand over the back of his greasy head and caressed his cheek.
“You can watch every rehearsal.” Flo swept one arm in a wide semicircle. “I’ll introduce you to all these fine girls.”
“I don’t need your help to find women, Ziegfeld. The dolls come to me like bees to honey, begging to be my girl.”
“How is Felicity?” Flo leaned back in his chair.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I miss that dame. The Follies haven’t been the same without her. Luring her away was a big blow; some might say you owe me.”
Chet winced. It was risky for Flo to say that, but he sure knew how to stroke the fat man’s ego and insult him at the same time.
“I didn’t steal nothin’. She loved me.” He pointed to his chest. “Me.”
“Loved? Past tense?”
Marciano shoved his chair backward, threw his linen napkin onto the table, stood, and nodded to his henchmen, who quickly approached.
Flo stood, raised his hands in surrender. “Now, now, Joe, no need to get testy. I’ll admit that was over the line.”
