by Lee Strauss
“Chantilly! You know you have a curfew.”
“It’s my fault for keeping her out,” Haley said.
Chantilly scampered past the madam and scurried up the stairs.
Madame Mercier narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “She was with you the whole time?”
Haley nodded, though it wasn’t technically true. She understood how things worked in this house. The girls wouldn’t be allowed to have clients on the side. Madame Mercier demanded her cut of the earnings.
“Very well.” Madame Mercier started to close the door, but Haley propped her arm against it.
“A quick question, if you don’t mind. I noticed a pair of men’s shoes in the room where both Snowflake and Primrose died. Do you know who they belong to? Did a client leave them behind?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There was a pair of men’s sh—”
“I heard you the first time. Yes. I remember now. Sometimes a client has to leave in a hurry. Perhaps they were forgotten. At any rate they’re gone now. I sold them to a man at the market.”
Haley had made the mistake of relaxing her stance, and this time she could do nothing when Madame Mercier slammed the door in her face.
17
Samantha trod lightly to her front door—waking Bina would surely cause a scene—and padded quietly along the dingy hallway and down the four flights of stairs.
From behind closed doors the sounds of the living mingled together: babies crying, couples fighting, a radio blaring. Samantha stepped eagerly into the warmth of the summer evening. A fresh breeze moved through the passage from the entrance, yet didn’t erase the stench of greasy meals and cigarette smoke which hung in the air.
Samantha winced at the thought of spending money on taxi fare, but it was too far to walk. At first, she thought she might not have a choice since she couldn’t find a taxi to wave down. Wasn’t it always like that? When you weren’t looking for something, what you didn’t need could be seen everywhere, and when you wanted it, it was nowhere to be found.
Finally, a taxi responded to the raising of her arms. Not long afterward she was standing alone in the stairwell of the speakeasy. She took a deep breath and raised her fist to knock. She could do this.
Samantha’s heart pounded as she stood at the door of the speakeasy. The cement steps took her down a hollow well where she was concealed from members of the public walking or driving by. Maybe going out at night as a woman alone was a venture in folly, but she’d already knocked, and the eyes on the other side of the peephole stared back at her.
“The real McCoy,” she said quietly. When the door didn’t open immediately, Samantha feared the password had changed. Of course, it would, she thought. But how had the patrons learned of the change? She held her breath, thinking frantically of an excuse as to why she didn’t know the correct password when the door clicked open.
The bouncer at the door gave her a quick nod. “I remember you,” he said. “Go on in.” Once again, the energy of the place hit her hard—the abundance of electric lights, the loud music, the boisterous chatter, the laughter of the guests, and of course, the wild dancing—but it didn’t surprise her this time. Determined to appear confident, she slapped on a smile and strolled right up to the bar.
Having observed the behavior of the women on her last visit, Samantha crossed her legs. I hope no one notices my hose is rayon and not silk. She twirled the length of beads around her neck, batted heavily mascaraed eyelashes at the bartender, and ordered a Mary Pickford cocktail even though she didn’t know exactly what it entailed. She’d overheard another lady order it, and now anticipated the surprise.
The bartender smiled back. “Coming right up.”
As she waited, she turned her back to the bar and leaned against it with her bare elbows.
When the band ended one song and started another, tired couples returned to their seats, and those newly energized took the floor. A slender woman, her hair bleached blond and her outfit risqué, carried a round tray filled with drinks above her head. A cloud of smoke from cigarettes consumed by both sexes hovered above the room like early morning fog.
For a moment, everyone stilled—Edoardo Marchesi had entered the club. He wore a crisp white suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow hips. The pant legs hung loosely and landed on polished Italian leather loafers. A brown fedora sat on his head. Two well-built men flanked him, and Samantha swallowed at the sight of the gun-shaped bulges at their waists. She hoped there’d be no trouble tonight.
Edoardo stepped toward the bar, his eyes flickering with recognition when they spotted her. He didn’t come to her as she had hoped, but claimed a table at the other end of the bar, his henchmen sitting with him.
Suddenly Samantha doubted her decision to come alone, rather, to come at all.
Had the henchmen been with Eduard last night too? Were they always with him? Or is this a special event?
Her stomach twisted at her impetuousness. Bina was right; one day Samantha’s headstrong will would get her into trouble.
Her mental debate on whether she should simply walk out or not was interrupted by a movement that came from Edoardo. He held her gaze and she smiled.
If he crossed the floor alone and he asked her to dance, she knew she’d say yes. And after that? Could she remain clearheaded? Professional?
The bartender slid Samantha’s cocktail across the counter, a pretty red drink smelling of rum and pineapple juice, and topped with a maraschino cherry. Samantha dug through her clutch and presented three quarters. She could ill afford to spend even a dime on a drink, but she considered this a work expense and would speak to Mr. August about it later if she had a story.
No, not if. When.
Edoardo Marchesi wasn’t the only man in the room that Samantha recognized. Tom Bell stared at her from across the dance floor, a look of displeasure on his face.
Samantha had assumed that Officer Bell had been at the club the other night on his own time. Even cops had to blow off steam. And it wasn’t like he’d tried to shut the club down.
But maybe he was there for other reasons? Nefarious ones? It wasn’t the first time a cop had been corrupted by cash, especially in these hard times.
Her mind spun, and she lost focus on the room for a moment, so when someone tapped her shoulder, she jumped.
“I do apologize. I never meant to startle you.”
Edoardo Marchesi stood close to her, his head tilted down. Samantha had the good sense to feel afraid, but she didn’t intend to let Mr. Marchesi know that. She threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and smiled.
“My mind wandered.” She lifted her drink and sipped it as she studied him.
“I don’t see your date. Are you here alone?”
“Maybe.”
He leaned in closer and whispered in her ear. “It’s dangerous for women to go out alone.”
Samantha blinked. Was that a threat? Why did Edoardo feel threatened by her?
“Why is that, Mr. Marchesi?,” she replied smoothly, hoping he could see how he’d rattled her. “I’m among friends, aren’t I?”
Edoardo chuckled. “You’re a plucky one; I’ll give you that.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Samantha said.
“What have you heard?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re here for a story.”
So he knew she was a journalist. Her stomach knotted at the thought that Edoardo Marchesi had been investigating her too. What else had he learned about her?
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be honest. I’d like to know more about your brother.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
What else was there?
“Yes. Why were you estranged? What could be so bad that a man would be excommunicated from such an influential family?”
Edoardo leaned casually against the bar. “Rivalries happen in all sorts of families.”
“Fair enough. What
was the cause of yours?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, Miss Hawke, but a man doesn’t steal from his brother. Not without consequences. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve revealed enough about my personal life.”
As Edoardo Marchesi strutted away from Samantha’s position at the bar in the club, she wondered if she’d just made herself a powerful enemy. Ruing the fact that she’d paid full price and only drunk half, she pushed her cocktail away. Tonight was not a night to lose control of her senses. The electricity in the room was palpable. Despite the loud jazz music, and the oblivious couples dancing on the floor, tension enveloped the place. Why had Edoardo made such a dramatic entrance displaying his henchmen at his side? Across the room, Samantha caught Tom Bell’s eye, and he nodded subtly toward the door. Was he signaling for her to leave?
She shook her head.
He dropped his chin, pursed his lips, then nodded toward the back of the room where the restrooms were. Samantha pushed off of her stool and headed in that direction, dodging an attractive woman in a shimmering blue dress who was laughing with her debonair escort.
A graceful woman in a gorgeous glittering evening dress turned, and Samantha was stunned to see Madame Mercier’s face. Samantha averted her eyes before their gazes met and hoped the madam hadn’t recognized her. What was she doing here? Drumming up business?
“Hello, Officer Bell,” Samantha said when they finally faced each other. “Fancy meeting you here again.”
His eyes flashed with annoyance, which confused Samantha. Hadn’t Johnny just said the officer wanted to take her out on a date? Or maybe what she saw was something more serious. Fear?
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Why not? You’re here.”
“That’s different.”
“Why? Because you’re a man?”
He snorted.
“Might I remind you that you’re a police officer frequenting an illegal establishment?”
Officer Bell’s jaw dropped, and Samantha stared back pompously.
He stepped closer and spoke in her ear.
“I’m on the job. Now get out unless you want more trouble than you’re looking for.”
Samantha pulled back and shot him a look. Was he serious? Although, she did sense something was up. Now she could taste a big story. This could be her chance to break it. Leaving was out of the question!
Then again, she had Talia to think about. It would be reckless of her to purposely place herself in danger. But really, how dangerous could it get? If she lingered near the back of the room where she could watch and not be in the middle of things, she should be fine.
“I’m staying, but I’ll be careful, I promise.” She smiled, then sashayed away, feeling the fringe of her dress slapping defiantly against her legs as she made her way to an empty chair along the wall.
She hadn’t made it before shots rang out.
Someone shouted, “It’s a raid!”
Samantha dropped to the floor and crawled under the table. The rapid beating of her heart made her catch her breath. Preoccupied with making an impression on Officer Bell, she hadn’t even seen the police bolting in through the doors, much less who fired first!
She didn’t have time to pity her poor fortune. Glass shattered as the chandelier crashed to the floor. Gunshots popped as the police fired and rounds were returned. Screams.
During a lull, Samantha dared to peek over the edge of the table.
The woman in the blue dress sobbed over her fallen dance partner. Burly police officers stormed the place and started rounding people up. Samantha quickly scanned the room, sifting through the mayhem in search of Edoardo. She couldn’t find him, but one of his henchmen lay on the floor bleeding.
Samantha’s pulse pounded in her ears as panic took full force. She had to get out. If the police spotted her, they would arrest her. She couldn’t go to jail, not even for one night. Not only did she desperately want to get back to Talia, she knew she’d never hear the end of it from Bina! Plus, Mr. August might fire her, and she really needed this job.
She crawled under tables toward the back door, certain there would be cops watching that entrance and the alley behind it, but if chance was on her side, she might be able to create a distraction and get by unseen.
Samantha kept watch on all the chaos as she crawled. At the very least, she had to get a story for her trouble. Searching above the tables and over her shoulder, she nearly ran into a man lying on the floor. She gasped.
“Officer Bell?” She shook his prone body as if that would startle him back to life. “Officer Bell!”
A soft moan emanated from his mouth. He was alive, but blood was erupting from a bullet hole in his side.
Samantha’s heart was in her throat. She was desperate to get out of the club, but she couldn’t just leave him. He moaned again, louder this time.
“You’re going to be fine,” Samantha said, not at all sure that he was. She removed Officer Bell’s handkerchief from his jacket pocket, opened his vest and placed the folded square over the wound. Samantha didn’t have any official medical training, but she did know that a person could bleed to death if the flow of blood wasn’t stopped. Beads of sweat covered his ashen face.
“Tell my mother I love her.”
“Shut up! You’re not going to die.”
The club had grown quiet. The only people left were those who were unlucky enough to have got arrested or, even more unlucky, had died.
She frantically waved her hand. “Over here! Officer down! Get an ambulance!”
18
There were two fresh corpses in the morgue. Haley read about the raid that had taken place at a local speakeasy the night before which had brought on their demise.
A source from the police force says the raid at an illegal establishment on Franklyn Street had been in the works for some time. Boston’s chief prohibition agents claim the club, owned and operated by Mob family son Edoardo Marchesi, had been in their sights since the new year but its exact location had been unknown.
Haley frowned. Edoardo Marchesi, again.
Without warning, the police stormed the place. Shots were fired resulting in the death of one of the Marchesi family employees as well as an innocent bystander. Officer Tom Bell of the Boston Police Department was seriously injured. The death of the Italian civilian, whose name has not been released, has the members of Little Italy planning protests.
Though this fiasco is, once again, only a case of prohibition agents doing their jobs, many are protesting against prohibition, declaring it a failed experiment. Federal statistics easily obtained by the Freedom of Information Act show that not only has crime significantly increased since the implementation of the 18th amendment, but liquor consumption by Americans has never been higher. Opponents claim that taxpayer dollars are wasted, and that enforcement is inefficient. Even with the so-called Rum Line pushed twelve miles from shore, the rum-running business is going strong.
As one bystander stated, “They close down one speakeasy, and two new ones open within the week.”
As of this printing, the Marchesi family has been unavailable for comment. Witnesses state that Edoardo Marchesi was seen at the club on the night of the raid, but his current location is unknown to police.
Haley smiled at the byline: Sam Hawke.
Without giving it a second thought, she checked for the number in the telephone book, reached for the receiver, and dialed the Daily Record.
The call was connected and when the reception picked up, she stated, “I’d like to speak to Sam Hawke.”
A young female responded. “Just a moment, and I’ll get her for you.”
A few minutes later, Samantha answered, “Sam Hawke.”
“Hello, Samantha. This is Haley Higgins. I just finished reading your piece in the Record, and I wanted to congratulate you.”
“Why, thanks!” Haley heard the sound of a hand muffling the end of the line and then Samantha’s voice came back at a lower vol
ume. “I’m using the receptionist’s phone. I don’t want anyone to overhear, especially Freddy Hall. He’s bound and determined to steal my thunder.”
“Understood. Maybe we could meet up sometime. I want to compare notes.”
“I was thinking the same thing, and I’m ready to get out from the suspicious surveillance I’m under here. Johnny’s the only one who believed me when I said I was there.”
“You were there?”
“Long story. Are you calling from the morgue?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. I have some work I need to finish up here, but I should make it there in a couple of hours.”
Haley answered, “I’ll be waiting.”
Samantha hung up abruptly leaving Haley to listen to static.
Haley made a second call, this time to the police department.
“Please connect me with Detective Cluney. Tell him it’s Dr. Higgins on the line.”
Momentarily, the detective’s gruff voice reached her. “Dr. Higgins? What can I do for you?”
“I’m curious, Detective. Did the police ever find the gun that killed Agnes O’Reilly?”
“The brothel gal? Snowfall?”
Haley held in her annoyance. “Snowflake, and yes.”
Detective Cluney didn’t even bother to cover the mouthpiece as he shouted out to another officer. “No weapon found at the brothel, right?” Then to Haley. “Nope. Sorry, Doc. Anything else I can do to satisfy that curiosity of yours?”
“That will be all for now,” Haley said, forcing politeness. She and Detective Cluney had a professional relationship that could be trying at times.
Unfortunately, without the murder weapon and the possibility of finding fingerprints, Haley couldn’t prove or disprove Chantilly’s guilt or innocence.
Dr. Guthrie shuffled in just as Haley returned the heavy barbell-like receiver. A newspaper was rolled up under his arm, and Haley was certain that meant he’d seen Samantha’s article as well.
