Jezebel

by Koko Brown

  “Celeste.”

  “Yes, Shane.” Celeste winced. She sounded woefully breathless and eager. Not too surprising considering her pulse was racing like a jackrabbit’s. Lord have mercy! If he pulled her into his arms again and kissed her silly, she’d probably melt at his feet.

  “I need my coat ticket.”

  “You’re leaving?” She asked, feeling suddenly downcast. “I thought you wanted to see Trudy perform.”

  Celeste almost rolled her eyes. She’d practically served up an excuse for him to stay.

  “I’ll stay only if you join me.”

  Tempted, Celeste groaned. If she spent any more time with him, she’ll find herself in more trouble than she could handle. But when had she ever run from trouble?

  “I would l—“

  “What was I thinking?” Shane chuckled. “I almost talked myself out of our arrangement.” Unaware that reneging on their arrangement was the furthest thing from her mind, he stepped forward, slipped her purse from her hand then proceeded to pilfer it.

  “See you Saturday.” Once the coat-check ticket was in his possession, he waved it under her nose, “don’t leave me hanging. You’ll regret it.”

  “I won’t,” Celeste muttered, feeling his absence already and not liking it.

  CHAPTER seven

  Shane accepted his belongings from the coat-room attendant and flipped a case quarter in the tip jar. As he slipped his arms into his overcoat, his movements were methodical, yet almost reluctant. He even dragged his feet to the exit.

  Swearing, Shane jammed his fedora on his head. He was acting like a kid wet behind the ears, practically shuffling his feet and acting as if he didn’t want to leave.

  He should be mad at her for setting him up! Instead, all he could think about was her luscious curves and soft lips.

  It was only because she was the Reverend’s daughter, Shane rationalized.

  But the more he analyzed his odd attraction to Newsome’s daughter, the less it had to do with their father/son relationship and more to do with the fact that the broad was the most vivacious creature he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting.

  Disconcerted, Shane bullied his way through the front exit barely giving the doorman anytime to open one of the padded double doors.

  “Need a taxi?” Marvin asked, quickly shuffling out of Shane’s way.

  “Point me to the nearest subway station.” Shane flipped the collar of his coat and breathed in deeply. Maybe if he walked part of the way, the cold air would clear his head.

  The doorman smiled broadly and steam seeped from the corners of his lips.

  “You gotta give me more direction than that. What’s your final destination?”

  “Brooklyn Navy Yards.”

  “That’ll be the West 4th Street station.” The doorman turned and pointed a gloved finger east. “Walk to the end of the block and cross over Sixth Avenue. Take the A train ‘cause the C won’t be running at this hour.”

  “The A train,” Shane confirmed albeit somewhat disappointed. He’d hoped for more than a half-a-block jaunt to absolve his conscience.

  “The quickest way to Harlem,” the doorman winked, “and unless I call you a cab, the warmest ride to Brooklyn.”

  In ill humor, the other man’s glibness and sly use of Duke Ellington’s lyrics only soured Shane’s mood. And before he had to suffer any more small talk or clever innuendos, Shane touched the brim of his fedora, threw the man a quick thank you then set off.

  Hands buried deep in his coat pockets, and his thoughts buried even deeper, Shane are up the distance. As he stopped at the end of the block, preparing to cross, he closed his eyes. He should have parted ways at the funeral home. He should have kept Celeste Newsome at arm’s length, not beg for another opportunity to see her again.

  Pissed by his lack in judgment, Shane squeezed his hands into fists. Why did she have to act so hot and cold? One minute erecting a wall of indifference, the next acting like an amoral creature to gain the advantage.

  What a damn heel! He’d allowed himself to be drawn in some sappy cuckold. All because he’d been unable to resist the strange, inexplicable attraction that hit him like a ton of bricks. Made him long to taste her lips. Feel her pressed to him.

  Deep in thought, Shane didn’t take much notice of the black on black Lincoln Zephyr convertible coupe ambling up Sixth Avenue. He also didn’t see the vehicle make a sudden U-turn at the signal light then return up the avenue.

  Oblivious to the quarry tracking him, Shane picked his way across Sixth Avenue and climbed the opposite curb.

  “Hey, Shaney Boy!”

  Shane stopped cold. Even though he knew he should’ve kept going, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, he did not. Avoidance served him well both inside and out of the ring, but he never ran.

  Slowly, Shane turned around and planted his feet. If he needed to throw a punch or dodge a bullet, he made sure his weight was evenly distributed. Sleek, with enviable curved lines and a high gloss, shine the coupe deserved admiration, but Shane zeroed in on man sitting in the back seat.

  A bitter taste settled in his mouth and he wished he’d taken the doorman up on his offer. “What do you want, Gould?”

  “Just being a good Samaritan by offering you a lift.” Grinning, Gould rubbed his palms together. “Harah! Shit! It’s cold as a witch’s tit out here.”

  He never ran, but Shane wasn’t stupid either. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m strap hanging it.”

  Shane jabbed his thumb toward the subway station’s entrance and Gould’s grin melted. And it he wasn’t mistaken the other man’s eye twitched. Expecting retaliation, Shane pulled his hands out of his pockets and let them hang at his sides. He would be damned if he died like some bum on the street.

  In a move, Shane half anticipated, Gould jerked his head. The door swung open and one of his cohorts jumped out. His hands jammed in his trouser pockets, the punk didn’t look none too happy about being out in the elements.

  “Zukh…look…I’m even being polite by opening the door.” Gould’s tone was conciliatory, but Shane smelled a rat.

  Cursing his bad luck and over-inflated ego, Shane climbed in. Not making himself too comfortable, he sat stiffly with his fists resting on his knees. With his lightning quick reflexes he could at least get off a punch or two before any of them were the wiser.

  Oblivious to his tactical defense, Gould grinned as he rubbed his palms together once again. “See how warm and toasty it is in here,” he gushed. “Me and the boys was just saying it felt like it was gonna snow.” Gould leaned forward and smacked the front seat. “Ain’t that right fellas?” he asked, to which both men nodded and offered up affirmation.

  Not up for chitchatting, Shane met the other man’s exuberance with silence. Still, Gould didn’t miss a beat. “So where were you headed?”

  “Flatbush,” Shane lied. He’d given up his dreams he’d be damned if they would intrude upon his personal life as well.

  “Get outta here!” Gould slapped Shane’s arm like they were old pals. “All three of us are from the same neighborhood. Ain’t it a small world?”

  Gould smacked his hand against the seat again and both goons responded on cue. Their laughter grated over Shane’s nerves like a trash talking, overrated boxer.

  “It sure is, boss,” the driver chirped.

  “Small world,” the other asserted.

  Gould’s gaze slid to the only odd man out and he sneered, revealing slightly, discolored teeth. “I should’ve figured you lived round our way. You can’t throw a stick in Flatbush without whacking a Paddy.”

  “Whack a paddy.…” The goon driving tugged on his shirt collar as he found Shane in the car’s rear view mirror, “…really funny, boss.”

  Shane clenched his fists so tightly his fingernails bit into his palm. Better he take the pain than inflict it on the two-faced shill, who now owned him lock, stock and barrel.

  Maintain your cool. He didn’t need to do anything stupid. The
re was too much riding on their undesirable association. Still, there was more than one way to strike a blow.

  “What’s this, a knitting circle?” Shane managed to dredge up what passed for a chuckle.

  Gould blinked once, then again. “What’d you say?”

  “A knitting circle. You’re chattering away like my nana used to.” Shane clutched his shoulders and started to rock back and forth. “Oh, it’s so nice and warm in here,” he cooed in a high-pitched voice. “I didn’t know we were from the same barn set.” Shane shoved Gould’s shoulder with a loud cackle. “You should come over for some tea.”

  One of the goons coughed, but Shane wasn’t completely positive he was just clearing his throat.

  “Mick…bog jumper…potato eater…fuck you and your ethnic slurs. I’m half Irish and proud of it.” Shane leaned toward Gould until their noses almost touched. “But you and me…we aren’t friends,” he reiterated for the second time that evening.

  Gould ruminated in silence, a muscle working in his jaw. From experience, Shane knew the other man was simply trying to figure out a way to work the situation back into his favor.

  There wasn’t any need. Despite his comeuppance and Shane’s misguided ethics, Gould would continue to have him on the ropes.

  “You’ve been training hard?”

  One simple question and Gould effectively knocked the wind from Shane’s wings.

  “On the canvas every day,” Shane said. Deflated, he sat back, putting some distance between them.

  Knowing he’d gotten to him, Gould became animated. “That a boy!” he said wagging his finger. “You need to keep up appearances, you know for the Commission and the press.”

  Shane snorted. Notoriously corrupt, the New York State Athletic Commission didn’t care if he ran twenty miles a day or slept in a tub of beer every night. The press on the other hand shaped the public’s perception. If the public felt they were duped, they’d be less inclined to pay any future gates. To the Commission, the take was the begin all and end all.

  “Speaking of appearances…I got wind Johnny Ferruci’s gonna drop by before the bout.”

  Shane frowned. There wasn’t anything unusual about that. Boxing promoters always checked out the fighters on their card.

  Gould stroked his narrow chin and looked almost contrite. “It might benefit you if he doesn’t get wind of the company you’re keeping.”

  Shane knew exactly to whom Gould was referring. Incoherent with rage, he grabbed the door handle at the same time he pounded the car’s soft top. They were crossing Manhattan Bridge and the crosswinds snatched the car from side to side. Shane didn’t care. He’d take his chances.

  “Stop the goddam car,” he yelled.

  The car kept going as if he’d never said a word.

  With exaggerated slowness, as if speaking to a child, Gould said, “You know how Italians are and if Ferruci sees or hears about you mixing company. He might call the whole thing off. Heck, he might even black list us. I won’t get made and you’ll never have another shot at the belt. Instead, you’ll stay on the fringe fighting exhibitions like some carney.”

  Be careful what you wish for. Shane spent the past five years wishing for a shot at the Garden and then one fateful day it fell in his lap. But not in the way he’d wanted.

  Shane’s gaze drifted to the window. It was beginning to snow. Flakes danced and brushed against the car glass. Some stuck, forming a crystal-like cobweb. Much like the one he’d found himself entangled. Unfortunately, Shane was too selfish to disentangle himself even when Gould unwittingly presented him with the best case scenario.

  The coupe slowed, stopping for a red light. Noting the location, the intersection of Flatbush and Tillary Avenue, Shane calculated the walk. It was a forty block hike, in the sleet and snow but he’d endure the elements just to be done with Gould.

  “I’ll get out here and walk the rest of the way,” he said, pulling on the handle. The door popped open and as Shane alighted, Gould slid over and took his seat.

  “I’d hate for you to get ideas. If Ferruci removes you from his card, that’s it. No more chances. Ze nigmar. So, are we on the same page?”

  Shane took his time buttoning his coat before answering.

  “Are we on the same page, Brennan?”

  “Like ink,” Shane said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and offering up the phoniest smile he could muster.

  The car pulled away from the curb, but Shane waited for it to turn the corner before he turned about and headed back east.

  CHAPTER Eight

  “Rise and shine,” Celeste chimed, slinging back the heavy brocade curtains in Trudy’s bedroom windows. She grinned wickedly when her cousin dove under the chenille bedcover.

  “I’ve got breakfast, so get up.”

  Trudy peeked from under the covers. “What time is it?”

  “Half past ten.”

  Trudy moaned. “Way too early, now get out.”

  Celeste ignored her cousin. She slid the breakfast tray off the dressing table and set it on the bed between them.

  “Trudy, please. I’ve already cleaned the house, visited the grocers and picked up our order at Green’s.

  “Did you pick up my white tux?” Trudy mumbled.

  “Sure did, now get up,” Celeste ordered.

  As commanded, yet with the pace of a snail, Trudy pushed back the covers. “Bagels and lox?”

  Celeste picked up a bagel and sliced it open. “I need some advice,” she said, while slathering both halves with cream cheese. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “Well aren’t you Miss Popular.” Trudy’s eyes widened. “Just don’t end up with worms. Hiram’s pushing sixty.”

  Offended, Celeste almost let her have it. Instead, she handed her a bagel. “Not him, the prizefighter.”

  “Well slap me and call me Lois Lane.” Trudy stacked her bagel with slices of smoked salmon, pickled capers and red onion. “I didn’t think you liked him.”

  “I didn’t…I mean I don’t…I think I might.”

  With food in her mouth, Trudy mumbled, “Either way I’m not totally surprised… ‘thou who protest too much’.”

  Celeste pursed her lips in consternation. “A little overboard?”

  “Like the Titanic.” Celeste snatched up a velvet pillow and let her cousin have it.

  “Hey! Don’t beat the messenger. You asked.”

  Trudy settled back against the pillows. “Glad you wised up. I wouldn’t even mind letting him put his shoes under my bed.”

  Celeste nibbled her lip. “You think I’m wrong for stepping out so soon after my father’s funeral?”

  Trudy shook her head. “You need some fun after that spectacle,” she said with a shudder. “All those people falling out and carrying on. You would’ve thought Marcus Garvey had died.”

  Celeste ignored a sudden swell of sadness. “It was a mess wasn’t it?”

  “A hot mess.” Trudy leaned back with a sigh. “I’m just glad it’s over and done with. You deserve a spot of sunshine. Just make sure he treats you like a lady and not some grove picker.”

  Celeste fell into the mountains of pillows at the head of the bed. “He was a doll wasn’t he? And he smelled yummy. It should be illegal for a man to smell that good. Oh Trudy, I gave him such a hard time. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Nothing wrong with you, honey. You just drew the short straw when God handed out parents. Go out on a few dates. Fall in love.”

  “You must have forgotten he’s white,” Celeste pointed out. “Men like him don’t jump the broom with women like us.”

  Trudy brushed aside Celeste’s argument with a flick of her hand. “Love can come in any form. All I’m saying is its high time you stop carrying that monkey on your back and live the life you deserve.”

  The thought of drying out put a sour taste in Celeste’s mouth. Her appetite sufficiently ruined, she slipped from the bed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have a
n appointment with my father’s attorney this afternoon.”

  Trudy instantly perked up. “Want some company?”

  “No. This should be a quick meeting. I’ll be back by the time you get your second wind.”

  Her cousin stretched her arms over her head and the sleeves of her silk pajamas puddle around her elbows. “How’d you know I was going for another twenty winks?”

  “We’re first cousins,” Celeste reminded her.

  “While you’re out, could you pick up a jar of Sioux Bee honey from the grocers?”

  Celeste reached for the wooden door knob. “I’ll put it on my list.”

  “Oh and pick up a couple of Schmids. I’m too young to be an aunt.”

  Celeste turned around at the door. Her cousin was lighting up a Camel. The first of many cigarettes she’d have over the course of the day. “It’s only one date, Trudy.”

  “True. But the way you panted after him, I know you and you’ve tried your utmost to live up to your father’s nickname.”

  Bristling, Celeste opened her mouth but Trudy beat her to the punch, “No need to explain, honey. I’m not judging you one whit. You enjoy the company of the opposite sex and I just want you to protect yourself.”

  “I always have.” In spite of her many dalliances, Celeste had never used the services of a back alley doctor.

  “Good,” Trudy nodded. “Now make tracks. Mama needs her beauty sleep.”

  Long after Celeste shut the door behind her, Trudy’s words stayed with her. She might practice protection to prevent disease and unwanted pregnancies, but she was woefully unprepared if Shane Brennan tried to steal her heart.

  * * *

  The solicitor didn’t get the memo that there was a depression going on. Celeste noted the half a dozen leather armchairs lining the dark paneled walls and a large receptionist desk made of the finest walnut sitting opposite the lobby door.

  Even his secretary was impeccably dressed in a navy belted dress adorned with a crisp white collar and cuffs. Instead of wearing her hair in loose waves to her shoulders, à la the current fashion, a neat chignon completed her polished look.