The Canary Club

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  Canary Club

  Sherry D. Ficklin

  Crimson Tree Publishing

  Contents

  Quote

  Canary Club

  Also by Sherry D. Ficklin

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Also by Sherry D. Ficklin

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Queen of Someday

  Chasing Daybreak

  CTP Email List

  Also by Sherry D. Ficklin

  Canary Club Novellas

  Gilded Cage

  All that Glitters

  Nothing Gold

  * * *

  Stolen Empire Series

  Queen of Someday

  Queen of Tomorrow

  Queen of Always

  Stolen Empire Boxed Set

  * * *

  Geek Girl Mysteries

  Playing with Fire

  In Too Deep

  Digital Horizon

  * * *

  The Lost Imperials Series

  Extracted

  Prodigal

  Riven

  * * *

  Dark of Night Series

  Chasing Daybreak

  Chasing Midnight

  * * *

  Losing Logan

  Haunting Zoe (A Losing Logan Novella)

  * * *

  Twists in Time (Anthology)

  THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  * * *

  The Canary Club

  Copyright ©2017 Sherry D. Ficklin

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-63422-251-8

  Cover Design by: Marya Heidel

  Typography by: Courtney Knight

  Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

  For The Griz

  Still directing the choir, I’m sure.

  Manhattan, 1927

  I’ve never killed anybody.

  Maybe that’s a silly thing to take comfort in, but having just spent three months sharing a dank cell with someone who couldn’t say the same, well, it puts things in perspective.

  Not that my innocence of that particular crime makes me virtuous. In my seventeen years on this earth, I’ve done more than my share of wrong. But not murder, never that. Lying, cheating, coveting, hell, I’ve got most of the list covered and then some.

  But a fella’s gotta draw the line somewhere.

  Pushing the thought away, I focus on the rain beating against the tin roof across the street, the melody of it urging me forward with the promises of better things. This is the land of opportunity, after all. And here, on the tiny island of Manhattan, anything is possible—or that’s the sales pitch. Glancing back over my shoulder, I offer a farewell wave to the stone fortress. It might be considered beautiful, architecturally speaking, if not for the misery seeping from the walls like moss on stone. Eight-stories high with a deceptively ornate chateau façade, the Tombs is where the worst of Manhattan’s criminal element are sent to rot. A high stone bridge connects the jail to the police station, which boasts tall, arched windows and Roman-style columns, all topped with rows of stately gargoyles looking down on the street below with menacing eyes. The Bridge of Sighs, they call it. A fittingly gloomy name for those crossing from independence to incarceration.

  I wish I could be more like the other Joes, beating the streets with wild dreams of striking it rich in the market or becoming the next Broadway darling. They flood in by the train full, with stars in their eyes and holes in their shoes. But dreams are for suckers and con artists, and this city has more than enough of both.

  The rain falls in fat drips on my head and shoulders as I stand on the corner of White and Elm, turning my back on the Tombs. It’s early on a Sunday morning, a normally bustling time of day, but the streets are eerily still. Perhaps it’s the weather that’s keeping folks inside, or the fact that Miller Huggins is, right this moment, leading the Yankees against the Washington Senators minus one very ill Babe Ruth. No doubt the majority of folks are sitting on their hands, listening to the radio broadcast of the game. Most of the guards had been—I’d strained to make out the announcer’s voices as they offered the play-by-play of the top half of the second inning through the crackling speakers. The guard doing my release papers had been annoyed at having to take the time away from the game to process me, which earned me one last backhand before he opened the final doors. I touch the corner of my eye with soft fingertips and hiss at the lump I find there.

  Small price to pay for freedom, I suppose.

  Ma has no idea I’m coming home today—though I’ve written to her a dozen times during my stay in the joint. Bad enough she’d had her oldest son shackled and tossed in the back of the paddy wagon. No, I’d rather spare her the humiliation of having to pick her child up from jail—it’s the least I owe her.

  I’m a disappointment, an embarrassment to the family, even if she would never say as much out loud.

  Turning down White Avenue, I head for our tenement building. It’s not close, just on the outskirts of Queens, but I don’t have a nickel for a trolley, much less enough dough for a cab. Rummaging through the pockets of my pants, all I find is a ball of lint and a bubblegum wrapper. But the rain is warm with summer air and the sidewalk feels sturdy under my feet, each step more confident than the last, taking me further and further from my six-by-six cell.

  The sound of screeching tires cuts through the pounding of the rain, and I jerk my head up, seeing the door fly open and a body hit the street. It rolls out of the dark car only a few feet before coming to a stop, one bloodied hand upturned and being washed clean in the downpour. It’s followed immediately by a second body and more screeching. Then, as quickly as it’d come, the black sedan speeds off, its whitewall tires peeling down the road and zipping around a corner with a splash.

  My first instinct is to rush to the bodies to try to help—if they can be helped. It’s only the stern voice in my head that pulls me up short, my footsteps faltering.

  Keep your head down, Benny.

  My father’s warning echoes inside my head. I cringe against the memory of the last words he’d ever spoken to me. Frozen in midstride, I watch the scene unfold before me, distant and partially obscured in the downpour. />
  Rumor has it several key players are scrambling since Joey Noe, one of the more prominent bootleggers in the area, was bumped off over a plate of minced beef and spinach cannelloni. I don’t know anything first hand, but the Tombs buzzed for weeks with talk that one of the heads of the five families had taken him out after a dispute at a craps table in Jersey. Now, they’re stuck looking for a new beer runner, making the smaller local importers battle for a foothold.

  It’s not the first time their secret war has spilled onto the streets. More and more violence eats at the heart of the city, and this is the result. Prohibition has turned good people into criminals, and criminals into modern gods.

  Up the street, an elderly woman shrieks at the sight of bodies in the road, dropping a sack of groceries and clutching her pearls with one hand, barely keeping hold of her umbrella with the other. Behind me, footsteps splash through puddles. A glance over my shoulder reveals two uniformed police running for the street.

  Good, let them handle it.

  Looking away, I turn up my collar against the rain, though I’m already soaked through.

  I walk swiftly, stopping only long enough to help the shocked woman repack her bag of potatoes before ducking into the next alley. Wiping my hand down my face, I brush my wet hair back before resuming my trek homeward.

  By the time I arrive at my doorstep, I’m soggy, cold, and my stomach aches with hunger. I pause, my hand on the brass knob. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I turn the handle and step inside.

  My brother rushes me immediately, wrapping his small arms around my waist, his head burrowing into my stomach. He’s grown three inches since I’ve been gone, the last traces of childhood nearly wiped from his face. He’s thin, too, not just lanky but borderline malnourished. A ripple of guilt rolls through me.

  “Careful, Thomas, you’ll get all wet,” I say, rustling his sunshine-yellow hair.

  He pulls away, “That’s okay, Benny. I’m just glad you’re home. I—I mean, Ma and Agnes missed you.”

  “Where is Ma?” I ask, peeking down the hall toward the tiny kitchen.

  He shrugs. “She’s at the cannery. It’s a double-shift day.”

  “And Agnes?”

  “In bed,” he says, his tone deflating.

  Stripping off my jacket, shoes, and socks, I drape them next to the radiator in the corner of the living room. Shuffling down the short hall, I stop outside my room—the small corner room I share with the twins—and push the door open. Curled in her bed, threadbare blankets piled high over her tiny form, Agnes sleeps. Her face is pink with fever, her eyes squeezed shut as if in pain. Her curly yellow hair is matted to her face and pillow, her lips thin and chapped. Not wanting to get the bed wet, I kneel next to her. Reaching out, I touch her forehead. Her cornflower-blue eyes flutter open, and she fights to smile through her cracking lips.

  “Benny, you’re home,” she says light as a whisper before launching into a fit of coughing and spasms.

  Soothing her as best I can, I take her small hand and kiss it. Her flesh is hot and dry.

  “Yeah, I’m home.”

  She licks her lips. “Can I have some water?”

  Thomas is already beside me, holding out a smudged, cracked teacup of clear liquid.

  Taking it from him, I help her get a few sips before she falls back into bed, her eyes closing once more.

  I grab some dry clothes from my dresser and leave the room, closing the door slightly behind me.

  “Has the doctor come?” I ask, following Thomas to the kitchen.

  He scoots a stool up to the sink and begins running water to scrub dishes. “Twice last week. I don’t know what he said, though. Ma wouldn’t tell me. I’m just supposed to look after Agnes while she’s at work.”

  “What about school?” I ask. The twins are seven now, and in the second grade.

  “It’s vacation, for summer.”

  After waiting for this day for so long, I’d forgotten that spring would have faded away so quickly. With a nod, I say, “Let me go change, then I’ll make us some supper, alright?”

  Turning to me, he smiles widely. “Boy, that’d be great. I don’t think I want sugar beets again.”

  Heading to the bathroom, I take a minute to look at the empty medicine bottles littering the dirty porcelain sink. Various concoctions and tinctures in glass bottles claim to treat everything from fever to gout, but every single one is empty.

  Once I’m dressed, I take a minute to clean up the bathroom before going to the pantry. Thomas wasn’t kidding. Other than a few jars of beets, some cornstarch, and a sack of beans, the cabinet is bare as a bone. I manage to scrounge up some bread, jam, and a few bits of cheese. It’s a far cry from the chiffon pies and jelly rolls Ma had made nearly every night when Pa was still alive, but it will have to do.

  Thomas and I sit at the table, devouring the humble meal, while he fills me in on everything I’ve missed.

  The words pour out of him in a torrent, and I wonder how long it’s been since the kid had anyone other than Agnes and Ma to talk to. Afterward, he takes a small plate of food into Agnes while I clean the kitchen. We listen to the radio for a bit, catching the last few innings of the game, then wile away the day playing cards and discussing the hundreds of things I’ve missed in my absence. When night finally falls. I tuck them both in and then continue cleaning up the tenement, gathering dirty laundry, washing the smudged glass of the main window, and even dusting the old oak shelf where Pa’s family Bible sits, untouched since his passing.

  It’s a little after nine when Ma walks through the door, kicking off her wet boots and shaking off her brown cloche hat before tossing it on the coatrack. Seeing me, she warily walks forward, pulling me into her arms. At first, I think it’s a half-hearted hug, then I realize she’s resting nearly all her weight against me, almost as if she’s fainted. I lift her gently from her feet, carrying her over to Dad’s worn leather armchair before setting her down.

  It’s only then that I get a good look at her in the dim light of the electric lamp. She seems to have aged ten years in the few months I’ve been away. Deep lines penetrate her forehead and cheeks, dark circles sit under her eyes, and her lips are dry and cracked. Even her once-rosy cheeks are sunken and hollow, her normally fair skin tinged with green. Her hair is more silver than blond, pulled back in a fraying bun. Her hands are covered in small, angry cuts, no doubt from the hours spent shucking oysters at work.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” she says, barely getting the last word out before breaking down in tears. Kneeling at her feet, I pull her forward so her head rests on my shoulder as she sobs, her body convulsing with each breath drawn. “Benjamin. My sweet Benjamin.”

  As I rub her back, I can feel each of her rib bones under my fingers, and it’s all I can do not to join her tears.

  I’d abandoned my family when they needed me most. Never mind that it wasn’t by choice or that I wasn’t even guilty of the crime they accused me of. I wasn’t here. That’s all that matters. Dad passed, and it’s my job to provide for them now, a job I’ve failed in spectacular fashion.

  “No more double shifts,” I say finally.

  Sitting back, Ma opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off.

  “I mean it, Ma. Agnes is sick, and she needs you. I’ll get a job tomorrow. I don’t care what it is. I’ll even sweep up at the cannery if I have to. I’m just so sorry.”

  She cups my face in her hands. “No, I’m sorry. You’re a good boy. You always have been.”

  Her words send a sliver of guilt through me. Standing, I retrieve the last remnants of my dinner and hand it to her, sitting across from her as she eats.

  “Is there nothing left?” I ask. I know Pa’s savings had been small, but it should have lasted longer than this.

  She shakes her head, swallowing the last crumb of bread. “When Agnes got sick, the doctor said she needed medicine. It was expensive, and it took everything we had. But nothing helped. He came back a few weeks later, and said
she must have something else—he thought it was a chest infection, originally—but now he says we need to take her to see a specialist up in Albany. But the money is gone now. We’re barely getting by. I had to sell your father’s pocket watch for bread and milk this week.”

  She brings one hand to her quivering lips, as if admitting to a great crime of which she’s deeply ashamed. I know the watch she’s talking about. It was one of Pa’s prize possessions. A gold pocket watch engraved with the image of a train. For him, it represented his trek out of Germany, his coming to America—to the land of opportunity—where my siblings and I were later born.

  I shake my head. “You did what you had to. Pa would understand.”

  “We had a good life,” she says, sounding completely defeated. “I just don’t know how it came to this.”

  “I’ll fix it. I swear,” I vow, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. “Whatever it takes.”

  That night, I can’t seem to sleep. Between my heavy thoughts and the too-soft mattress, I toss and turn. Finally, I pull a thin blanket and pillow onto the hard floor and manage to drift off only to be woken periodically by Agnes’ coughing fits and Thomas getting up to fetch her water.

  Everyone is still asleep when dawn breaks, but I can’t force myself to lie there anymore. I put on the kettle and have a cup of stiff black coffee before showering and dressing in my best slacks and blue shirt, adding navy-blue suspenders and a matching bow tie. I comb my hair back and scrub the grit from under my fingernails. By the time I’m done, Ma is awake, rummaging in the kitchen.

  “I’ll go to the market on my way home,” I call out.

  She holds up a box of corn flakes, shaking it victoriously. “This will hold us till then.”

  Coming around the corner, she tucks the box under one arm and reaches out, straightening my tie.