Murder Knocks Twice

by Susanna Calkins

  The couples stood up when the Signora arrived at their table, and she pressed the cheeks of each woman in turn. “Lottie, Maisy, darlings. So wonderful to see you again. It’s been ages.”

  “Likewise,” the taller of the two women said, her voice nasal.

  The Signora beckoned to Faye, who had been respectfully waiting a half step away.

  “Me and Maisy, we’ll have highballs,” Lottie said. “With gin.”

  “The good stuff,” added Maisy, speaking in the same sneering way as her friend.

  “Of course,” Faye said, and moved toward the bar. The two women settled down in a self-conscious way, clearly aware that all eyes were on them.

  In a lower voice, the Signora spoke to the men. “Gentlemen, follow me.”

  The two men followed her out of the room, accompanied by Little Johnny. Gooch, Gina noticed, stayed out on the main speakeasy floor. The two women sat back down at the table. Maisy began poking around in her embroidered handbag, her bright red mouth turned down at the edges as she peered inside.

  Hoping that she was interpreting the woman’s intention correctly, Gina moved over with her tray. “Ciggies?” she asked.

  “Marlboros,” Maisy replied. She accepted the pack from Gina and handed her fifteen cents.

  A moment later, the Signora returned to the dance floor, coming to stand beside the piano. When she clapped her hands, Ned immediately ended the tune he was playing with a flourish, and everyone turned toward the Signora.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, in a commanding way. “I trust you are enjoying your evening. We are quite fortunate that the Sullivan dance team could join us tonight. Please help me welcome Danny and Sheila Sullivan to the floor.”

  As Ned began to play a lively fox-trot tempo, a man and a woman swept gracefully onto the dance floor, to great applause and catcalls. Danny Sullivan, likely in his midtwenties, was expertly leading his wife around in a series of intricate, well-choreographed steps. The fluid movements of their lean, muscled bodies and their practiced smiles suggested years of hoofing together at a very high level. Tonight, though, the pair looked like they were having fun like everyone else, a graceful flurry of silks and beads. The music was contagious, and other couples began to shimmy about as well.

  Gina circled around the room again, smiling. Her shoulders were aching, and so were her feet. The pumps were starting to take their toll, making her feel like she could not take another step. She still didn’t really understand when she was allowed to set down her tray, on busy nights like this.

  As Gina made her way to the next table, she caught sight of Jade, staring at the Sullivans. There was pure envy there, and anger, too. As if sensing her gaze, Jade looked toward her then, and they caught eyes. Gina gave her a sympathetic smile, which Jade just shrugged off before turning away.

  * * *

  Later that evening Gina stood with her back to the stairs, keeping an eye out for any patron desiring a smoke. She’d left her tray at the bar to give the aching muscles in her neck and shoulders a chance to recover. She was just slipping her feet out of her shoes to wriggle her toes, when a man came stumbling down the steps, nearly falling straight onto the speakeasy floor beside her.

  “Already blotto?” Gina asked cheerfully, grabbing the man’s arm to help him get righted. Gooch, to her surprise, had rushed over quickly to grab the man’s other arm and keep him upright.

  “Sure, sweets. I’m blotto on life,” the man snapped back. He turned to Gooch. “Hand me my cane, will you?”

  To Gina’s chagrin, Gooch bent down to withdraw a long wooden cane from underneath a nearby table and handed it to the man. It must have slipped from the man’s grasp when he stumbled down the steps.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Gina said, looking up at the man. His coat was pulled up high around his neck, and his wool cap was pulled down low, obscuring nearly half of his face. She could see now that the cap and cane had deceived her, for he was far younger than she’d first assumed. Probably just a few years older than herself, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. Handsome. His hazel eyes, sweeping over her, were angry. “I didn’t know, and—”

  “Game start yet?” the man asked Gooch, shaking Gina’s hand from his arm.

  Gooch checked his watch. “Just about.” He handed the man his cane. “Good evening, Mr. Roark.”

  When Roark accepted the cane, Gina could see that he was missing his pinky and part of his ring finger on his right hand. A mortified flush still stinging her cheeks, she watched as he walked toward the back room, a heavy limp marking his movements. She wondered if he’d been injured in the Great War.

  With a sigh, Gina took out a small towel and began to wipe clean a few of the empty tables. She hated thinking about the war, which had claimed her older brother, Aidan, when she was only thirteen. She could still remember the day he left. She and her papa had accompanied him to the train station, where they had all been caught up in the excitement of waving flags and pounding drums. How he’d grinned at the pretty girls blowing kisses and throwing flowers as the train pulled out to Fort Sheridan, just north of Chicago.

  That was, as it had turned out, the last time they would ever see him. She wished now that they had thought to borrow a camera that day, but back then so few people owned even the most basic Brownies. A few months later, they had received a letter from when he was in Texas, along with the other Illinois recruits, and a month after that, another letter excitedly detailing his arrival to a tiny town in northern France.

  For several long months, they had waited in vain for another letter. Instead, they had received a sharp knock at their door, which they had opened to find a uniformed soldier standing stiffly, a yellow paper in his hands and deep sympathy in his eyes. The tersely worded telegram was one she’d never forget: “Deeply regret inform you Private Aidan Ricci Infantry officially reported killed in action November 1 1918 France.”

  After they had received the telegram, Gina had sewn a gold star atop the blue star hanging in their window, which her father had first proudly placed when Aidan joined the service. It hung there until the armistice was declared soon after, and then her father had carefully folded it away in a box.

  “Snap, snap!” Faye called out to her, pulling Gina from her reverie, as she passed by with a perfectly balanced tray of drinks. Most were a warm amber color, tinkling with ice. Whiskey, Gina guessed.

  “Get the curtain, will you?” Faye hissed at Gina. “Don’t stand there mooning around.”

  Hastily Gina rushed in front of Faye and pulled back the curtain that kept the back room closed off from curious eyes. She glimpsed a group of men sitting around a large round wooden table, chips and cards strewn all over its dull oak surface. In her haste, though, she accidentally jostled Faye, causing the drinks to slosh on her tray and one to spill outright.

  “Numbskull,” Faye said under her breath, smiling toward the table as she righted the glass and walked into the room. She set a drink in front of each man, smiling coyly as they tucked bills down the front of her dress. As Gina looked around, she realized that all of the men were disfigured in some way. Some had contorted faces; others were missing appendages. One had a black patch over one eye. Clearly all had served in the Great War.

  “Hey, Faye, why don’tcha send in Dorrie?” one of the men called. “I could use a smoke.”

  “Dorrie’s not here, Donny,” Faye replied, to a chorus of disappointed howls from the men. Obviously Dorrie had been a favorite. “We got a new girl now. Name’s Gina.” Through clenched teeth, she said to Gina, “Go get your cigarette tray. Can’t you see these dolls need their cigs?”

  “Sure, I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Gina replied.

  On her way out, she heard Roark ask Faye what had happened to Dorrie, but she didn’t hear the woman’s reply.

  As Gina checked over her cigarette tray, Faye emerged to put in an order with Billy Bottles. A man lurched up to her then and began speaking to her in a wheedling tone.

  “Not now
, Milt,” Faye said, smiling in her enchanting way.

  “Aw, why not, pretty Faye. Pretty please, pretty Faye,” the man continued in the same cajoling tone, seeming a bit bamboozled. He was probably in his midtwenties, and Gina thought she’d seen him drinking in the back room moments ago. Maybe an ex-soldier.

  “I’m busy,” she heard Faye reply, putting a bit of steel in her silvery voice.

  “Come on!” The man put his hand on her slim hip.

  Oh, brother, Gina thought. She was curious, though, to see how the delicate woman would deal with the unwanted advances. She could see that Gooch was now watching the exchange, too.

  “Put a sock in it, Milt,” Faye said sweetly, before sashaying away. As she passed Gina she whispered, “Total bozo. Stay away from him.”

  The man scowled at her and looked like he was about to follow Faye. Instead, he sat down at the bar when Gooch gave him a hard look.

  Reentering the back room with her tray refilled, Gina went over to Donny, since he was the one who had first called for a smoke. When she approached him, she could see that the man sitting next to him was missing half his jaw, with a metal plate inserted to fit his face.

  “Marlboro?” she asked, trying not to look at his misshapen face. Then she flushed when they all guffawed. Mentally she slapped her head, remembering too late that the brand was mostly smoked by women.

  “A few packs of Lucky Strikes will do us, sweetheart,” Roark said. He tossed two quarters on her tray. “You can leave this sideshow.”

  She flinched at his harsh tone and hurriedly set three packs down in the center of the table.

  The blond man, Donny, smiled up at her. Though his face was pallid and worn, his blue eyes were bright and friendly. “Don’t mind Lieutenant Roark, ma’am. He can be a real bear. Ain’t that right, Lieutenant?”

  “You were in the Great War?” she asked, smiling back. She ignored Roark, who she could sense was now scowling at her.

  “Yes, ma’am, 33rd Infantry Division. In the 130th.”

  When he said the name of the division, all the men pounded their fists into their hands at once while emitting a deep grunt. Evidently that was the sound of their unit.

  “My brother was over there, too,” Gina said, swallowing as unexpected emotion came over her. Sometimes she wondered what kind of man her brother would have become. “In the 123rd. Northern France.”

  “Did he make it back, ma’am?” Donny asked, though his tone was soft and knowing.

  She gave a swift shake of her head, willing herself not to cry. “We got a letter from him, saying he was in the Ardennes Forest. Then there was a telegram…” Her voice trailed off. There was nothing more to say.

  The men exchanged a look, shuffling their feet. No one felt too comfortable thinking about their comrades who didn’t make it back. Gina began to stack the dirty glasses on her tray, clinking them so loudly she thought they might break. “I’m sorry,” she said, blindly trying to get out of the room.

  Unexpectedly, Roark broke the strained silence. “What was his name?” he asked. “Your brother?”

  She didn’t look at him. “Aidan Ricci.”

  “To Aidan,” Roark said, and raised a glass. The others followed suit, all taking a sip, then banging their glasses down.

  Blinking back tears, Gina mustered a smile. “Thank you. My name’s Gina.” When Roark did not return her smile, she looked toward the others. “I know Faye’s your girl, but I’ll be back around to see if you need any more cigarettes.”

  Then she paused, not wanting to leave the room on a sad note. “Say,” she said, turning back to them, her smile bright again. “Any of you fellows drink Aviations?”

  The men all began to guffaw. “Not even flyboys drink Aviations,” Donny said. “That’s just a Lindy thing.”

  Walking back onto the speakeasy floor, she chuckled when she noticed the would-be pilots still trying out their lines on a couple of doe-eyed Doras.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Hey, Big Mike’s here,” a balding man with spectacles said to his companion. As she handed the man back his change from the Italian cigar he’d just purchased, she turned around. A large man, dressed impeccably in a white suit, had stepped out of the back office and was now shaking hands with customers as he passed, patting others warmly on their backs. Clearly a gregarious fellow.

  “Hello, my friends,” he called out to several tables of people. “Are we having a wonderful time?”

  A roar of approval followed. “Oh yeah, Big Mike,” several shouted back. “And how!”

  “Good, good,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s keep it that way!” He rapped his knuckles on the grand piano as he walked by. “Let’s get this place hopping, Neddy! Ladies, let’s make sure these glasses stay full.”

  “Sure thing, Big Mike,” Ned replied, his fingers picking up the pace as he played a hot dance number. A number of couples got up from their seats and began to dance, beads and heels clicking, fringed skirts shaking, and boas twirling.

  So this was Big Mike, the owner of the joint. Certainly he was larger than life, as she’d heard. Gina didn’t realize she’d been staring at him, though, until she accidentally caught his eye, and he began to stride straight toward her.

  Gina extended her hand. “Good evening, Signor Castallazzo. I’m your new cigarette girl.”

  “Call me Big Mike,” he replied, with an easy grin as he closed his hand around her fingers. He looked like he was only half paying attention. “Everyone else does. My wife told me she’d started a new girl on cigarettes.”

  “I’m Gina Ricci.”

  His eyes flickered back, his attention caught. “Ricci?” His eyes traveled over her face.

  “Yeah.” She wondered at his sudden interest. “The Signora hired me yesterday to replace—I mean, to fill the open position.”

  “Ah, yes. Poor Dorrie. God rest her soul. She’ll be missed.” He crossed himself, looking deeply sorrowful. He continued to study her face. “Ricci. You wouldn’t be related to Frank Ricci, would you?”

  “Frank Ricci? Sure!” Gina replied. “That’s my papa! You know him?”

  “Do I know your papa?” Big Mike threw his head back and gave a great roaring laugh. He seemed truly delighted. “Frankie the Cat—we ran with the same crowd when we were young knuckleheads. Grew up in Little Italy, on the same block of Maxwell Street. His pop and my pop, they were tight.”

  He looked back at her, still smiling hugely. “You’re Frankie’s girl! Imagine that!” he exclaimed. “When my wife mentioned, I didn’t realize—hey, Gooch!” he called to the bouncer, interrupting himself. “Didya hear? I got Frankie Ricci’s daughter here, working at my establishment.”

  “Her pop’s Frankie the Cat?” Gooch asked, a respectful tone creeping into his voice. “Well, ain’t she full of surprises?”

  “Frankie the Cat? What do you mean?” Gina asked, looking from one to the other. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Marty, who was a step away from Gooch, swivel toward her and set his camera on a table. He looked startled—and angry.

  “What’s your papa up to these days? Still driving trains?” Big Mike asked.

  “No, not anymore. He’s a handyman now. Fixes stuff.” Pride prevented her from adding anything else about her father’s current poor state of health.

  Big Mike’s eyes traveled again over her face. “You resemble your mother,” he said, his smile fading a bit.

  “You knew my mama?”

  “Molly? Sure, we all did. She was hot to trot. North Sider, though.”

  A slight silence followed. Even after all these years, Gina hated thinking about her mother. She changed the subject. “I never heard anyone call my papa Frankie the Cat. Why do you call him that?”

  Big Mike guffawed and glanced at Gooch, who gave a knowing chuckle. “That’s from our early days.” Though he seemed ready to explain more, he broke off when his wife approached them with a purposeful glide.

  “Gina,” the Signora said with exaggerated
patience, looking down over her long elegant nose. “My husband has perhaps forgotten that those cigarettes aren’t going to sell themselves, but I have not.”

  “Yes, Signora,” Gina replied, straightening her tray, about to move away.

  “And Gina,” the Signora said, a sudden chill to her tone. “We may sell gum, but you may not chew it in here. You look like a cow chewing its cud.”

  “Maria, sweetheart, don’t be hard on her,” Big Mike said to his wife. “Didya know she’s Frankie Ricci’s little girl?”

  “Oh, is that so?” the Signora replied, her face darkening. “I hadn’t realized.”

  Gina’s hands began to sweat, and she nearly dropped the tray. She didn’t know why, but an uneasy feeling had suddenly swelled up inside her.

  * * *

  Cramming a stick of spearmint gum in her mouth, Gina sank down into one of the sofas in the back salon for a quick break. An hour had passed since she’d spoken to Big Mike, and she was still wondering about what he had told her. Papa never talked about his life before he married her mother, and not once had she ever heard anyone around the neighborhood call him Frankie the Cat.

  Pulling off her pumps, Gina began to rub her feet while looking at a copy of Variety one of the other girls had left on the table, thumbing through pictures of actresses and descriptions of the latest talkies.

  A moment later, Marty Doyle stepped into the salon and, after a darting look around, dropped into a plush blue chair next to her sofa. Gina straightened up, about to greet him, but something about his scowl kept her from saying anything. She slid the Variety back onto the table.

  Still without speaking, Marty removed the camera from his neck and placed it on the table in front of them both. He crossed his arms and finally spoke. “What are you doing here?”