The Canary Club

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “Just be careful, Benjamin. You don’t want to go getting into trouble again.”

  I grin. “No more trouble, Ma. I promise.”

  She sighs. “From your mouth to the good Lord’s ears.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve snuck out of the penthouse. On the contrary, it’s become a semi-regular occurrence as of late. Tony, my stoic and constantly frowning guard-come-chaperone took me home after dinner, as per Daddy’s instructions, depositing me safely in the apartment my brother and I share before heading home for the night. He told me to sit, to stay. Be a good girl, he chastised me sharply without words but rather using a cutting glance.

  This is our dance. He commands me to behave. I promise I will. It’s a terrible lie, though. I don’t want to sit. I don’t want to stay. The city, thick with beating drums and screaming trumpets, heavy with sweat and clouds of smoke, humming with dancing feet and billowing laughter, soaked with gin and glitter and unmitigated freedom, calls to me, and I’m helpless against it.

  But I pretend to obey and he pretends to trust my word, taking his leave. Butler is already turned in for the evening, and my maid, all too aware of our little routine, already has a slinky little number draped over the back of my vanity chair before I even open my bedroom door. The only creature with wide eyes is the guard outside the front door, one of an ever-rotating number of fellas my father employs to keep the penthouse secure. I almost laugh at the thought. As if the wolves were outside our door and not already in our very hearts.

  Thanking the maid, I wave her off to bed, quickly refreshing my rouge and lipstick.

  The midnight air is brisk as I slip from the servant’s entrance into the alley, my snappy t-strap shoes clacking on the pavement as I make my escape. I take a deep breath, my lungs filling to nearly bursting. There are no eyes on me now, no lies I must tell or smiles I’m forced to fake.

  It’s just the city and me.

  I may have actually opted to bathe and turn in for the night—for once—but that plan had been shot to hell with one frantic call from June.

  Now, I’m walking the street alone, clutching my beaded purse. The fringe of my maroon dress tickles the tops of my garters as I make my way toward a group of flappers lined up outside one of the smaller clubs, smoking their thins in long, black cigarette holders, laughing loudly at the two Joes making faces at them from the other side of the wide glass window, waving and begging them to enter.

  I recognize one of the girls as Maggie Kurskey, daughter of Rabbi Kurskey, a man with whom my father has occasional dealings. The good rabbi likes to procure wine from Daddy’s company—for religious use, of course. I wave and she grins, opening her arms and taking me by the shoulders, leaning forward to kiss the air next to my cheeks in French fashion.

  “Getting into trouble, Maggie?” I ask, returning the gesture.

  She shakes her head. “Who, me? Trouble? Never.”

  Her response elicits a fit of giggles from some of the other girls. Dropping her hand to her thigh, Maggie lifts her dress and slides a flask from her garter. “Though, I’m sure we can scrounge up something, if you’d like to join us?”

  Normally, I might take her up on the offer, but tonight…

  “Sorry, I’m going to have to pass. But come by the club tomorrow night after my set. First bottle will be on me,” I say, the invitation a cheerful chirp.

  She grins widely, exposing one chipped front tooth. “I will, for sure.”

  I make my way around the usual hotspots—stopping only briefly to offer a flirtatious wink or a quick hug to the usual faces—toward the garment district.

  I should have known something was wrong when June didn’t show up to the club to watch me sing. Instead, my brother, JD, had entered uncharacteristically alone, then spent the better part of the evening nursing two fingers of whisky. June’s call a few hours later had been unexpected, her boisterous laugh and pronounced slur telling me she’d been out getting into some sort of trouble, and I may as well be part of it.

  It’s not until I run into a couple of JD’s employees, all of them completely blotto and being roughly escorted out of the Scanty Nancy, a poker and beer joint in Hell’s Kitchen, that I stop to ask about my friend, just in case her adventures had taken her elsewhere. The tallest boy, Dickey, throws one arm over my shoulder. His boldness surprises me, but only for a fraction of a heartbeat. I pat his hand once before twirling out of his embrace with an admonishing laugh.

  “What brings you out tonight, princess?” he asks, the gin and lemon still fresh on his breath.

  “I’m on my way to meet June.” I hold up my hand, forcing a polite smile. “You know, yay tall, stick-straight black hair bobbed at the chin…”

  “And curves that don’t stop,” another boy says, laughing loudly. He points down the road. “I saw her get into a car with that Brewer fella, maybe an hour ago?”

  The forced grin slips from my face before I can stop it. There is literally no one she could have flung herself at that would have upset JD more. Not only is Lepke the number two of a rival crime family, but he and JD have a very personal beef that goes back to an ill-wagered boxing match that JD swears Lepke had fixed.

  Of course she’s with Lepke.

  There’s a fire in that girl that burns everything she touches. I know it all too well, because I have a similar flame in me. It’s a deep, irrational desire to push limits, to test boundaries, and, when things are going smoothly, to take a match to it all. It’s part of the reason we became such fast friends when JD introduced us—and why we end up in so damn much trouble together.

  “How do you plan to repay me for that information?” the boy asks, wagging his thick eyebrows suggestively as I collect myself. “Cash or check?”

  He chuckles, and Dickey slaps him on the back, joining in.

  Taking one step forward, I grab him by the front of the shirt and pull him to me, pressing my mouth to his in a kiss so hard I can feel his teeth behind his lips.

  He freezes, completely stunned by my move. I lick his bottom lip, fighting back my repulsion at the taste of stale beer and cheap tobacco, my eyes never closing, locked on his as they go wide with shock. When I release him, the poor boy nearly falls over, and another roar of laughter spills out of Dickey.

  “Don’t feel bad,” he says, offering his friend a hand as he rights himself. “That dame’s a firecracker. Fellas like us don’t stand a chance.”

  Wiping my mouth with the pad of my thumb, I glare at the boy, shrinking him with my gaze. I can read the panic on his face as he realizes, through the booze-induced haze, what he’s done. He just kissed Dutch Schultz’s daughter.

  For a fella like him, that’s as good as a death sentence, especially given Daddy’s tendency to run a little hot under the collar where I’m concerned.

  I see the realization hit his eyes even as the flush drains from his cheeks. A question forms on his features—was the kiss a flirt or a threat? Would I tell my father that this boy with holes in his shoes—without two pennies to rub together—had dared steal a kiss from my lips? Honestly, I already know I won’t say a word, but I hold my expression in a stern half smile anyway.

  Having people fear you gives you power. Having them love you gives you influence. Having both, well, that’s how you build an empire.

  I wave as I spin on my heel, turning my back on the rowdy boys. “See ya around, fellas.”

  It’s only a few blocks to Lepke Brewer’s hole-in-the-wall speakeasy. It’s hidden behind a tiny green door in a dark alley. If I didn’t know where to look, I’d never be able to find it. It’s one of the few perks of the family business—we know where every gin joint, dive, and dance hall in the city hides, and we are welcome at any of them—at least outwardly.

  As I stand outside the door, my hand ready to tap out the secret knock, I already know what kind of stir my presence will cause. As a matter of fact, I have, in my room, a lovely brown wig I use for just these sort of occasions, something to hide my telltale golden waves. Bu
t I’d neglected to bring it tonight, a mistake I doubt I’ll make in the future.

  Oh, to hell with it.

  I knock, three quick taps, two slow ones, then two more quick ones. The door swings open and the host rakes a quick look over me, ankles to eyebrows. It’s only when his eyes meet mine that the recognition hits and he bows from the neck, waving me inside.

  “Welcome to the Pennybaker Players Club,” he says, hastily closing the door behind me and sliding the lock in place. “The table games are upstairs, speakeasy is down and to the left.”

  A young woman, barely covered in a dress made from faux rabbit fur, holds a silver tray of candies toward me. I accept one, popping the small chocolate in my mouth and rolling it around until it melts away. The small, brandy-filled confections are a delicacy served at the higher-end establishments, but now, they’ve somehow migrated even to places like this. The décor is gold leaf everything, from gaudy glass vases to antlers hung on the wall. A few round tables litter the small space, and people talk loudly over the music throbbing from the gramophone in the far corner.

  “Where’s June?” I ask, licking my fingers while holding eye contact with the host.

  He blinks, his eyes darting from my mouth, to my eyes, then back again.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but I don’t know…” he stammers.

  I sigh. “Of course you do; she came in with Lepke. As a matter of fact, she probably called me from that phone.” I motion to the black phone set into the far wall beside the coatroom.

  His eyes flicker to it, then back to me. “I don’t remember any such person, Miss.”

  My ire rising, I pull a folded ten-dollar bill from my purse, holding it between two fingers. “Where’s Lepke?”

  His eyes dart to the coatroom, then back at the money in my hand. A trickle of sweat rolls down his temple, and alarms sound inside my head. I stick the cash back in my bag, leaving it open but clutching it close to me

  “Never mind, then. I’ll just find him myself,” I say, stepping past him. The bunny girl catches my eye, jerking her head just a fraction toward the coatroom, her expression souring.

  I make it five steps before the host darts in front of me, cutting me off.

  “That’s just the coatroom—staff only,” he says, looking down on me.

  I step closer to him, so close we are nearly touching, and draw myself up to my full height, still a few inches shorter than him but tall enough to rise above his chin as I glare. “I’m not leaving here without either my friend, or some idea of where she’s gone, and if you plan to stand between that objective and me, then I suggest you write down your suit size, so I can tell the undertaker how big your casket will need to be.”

  The threat is a risk, but it seems to hit home. I’m a Schultz, after all. We aren’t exactly known for making idle threats, or for failing to punish people who anger us. Thank my father for that.

  Truth is I will do whatever it takes to find June. An almost-electric humming deep inside me is demanding I do no less, warning me that something is very, very wrong here. Luckily, he takes me at my word and steps aside.

  Brushing past him, I walk into the coatroom. There’s a door on the far wall, only half obscured by a rack of suit jackets.

  I push it aside, muttering to myself. “June, you better not be playing games with me.”

  It’s then I hear it, my hand on the rusted steel lever. The muffled sound of screams.

  Not playful, joking screams, but guttural, voice-breaking ones.

  Without thinking, I hit the lever and the door opens inward, exposing a large study lined with bookshelves and a series of high-back leather chairs surrounding a round, stone table. But it’s the table that holds me frozen in shock.

  Lying across the table, stomach down, her screams and sobs intermingling in the cramped space, is June. Lepke is behind her, his meaty fist clutching her hair with one hand, his face red and glistening with sweat.

  Seeing me, he freezes, even as I find my breath again. I’m moving toward them now, one hand balled into a fist.

  I could kill him, I realize as he backs away. When he releases her, she falls to the ground in a bloody clump. I could beat him to death with my own small hands. The rage inside me demands I do it. I need to end his sorry existence in that very moment. It’s only June’s hand on my ankle that stops me from moving past her.

  When I look down, I see her face. It’s swollen and lipstick smeared. Blood from a badly split lip and bruises discolor her jaw.

  I bend over, wanting to help her and cover her exposed flesh. But I don’t get the chance to do either. Three of Lepke’s men rush into the room, two guards and the door host.

  Not waiting for them to advance on us, I pull the pearl-handle pistol from my purse and wave it in their direction. Not prepared for me to be armed, they hadn’t drawn their own weapons and can do nothing but stare at me, hands upturned. One of them considers drawing his own piece, so I fire a warning shot, missing his hand by inches.

  “If you think I’m incapable or unwilling to drop you right here, you would be gravely mistaken,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. Standing tall, I spread my legs just a bit, holding the gun with both hands as JD taught me. I hear something rustle behind me and glance over my shoulder to see Lepke slipping a suspender over his shoulder and buttoning his trousers.

  “Come on, Masie,” he says breathlessly. “You don’t want to start something here that you can’t finish.”

  I blink, turning my attention to the guards. They’re still frozen, but their expressions clearly say they are thinking about rushing me.

  “I didn’t know she was armed,” the host says by way of apology.

  Lepke snickers. “It’s fine. We can take out the trash.”

  At my feet, June snarls.

  “Be a good girl and put the piece down,” Lepke continues, taking a step toward me.

  Now it’s my turn to snarl. “You seem to have forgotten who you’re talking to,” I say, producing a smaller gun from my garter and leveling it at him, my aim just below the waist. I glance at him for only a moment, just to see that my intended target is clear. He pales and I turn back to the guards, motioning to the host.

  “You, grab June a long jacket out of that closet.” I wave the gun pointed at Lepke. “And you, move over here beside your guards.”

  As he passes, his hands still up, June struggles to her feet, leaning against the table for support. She lifts one leg, then the other, prying off her shoes and lobbing them one after the other at her attacker.

  He dodges one, but takes the other in the shoulder, laughing with the impact. “What’s the matter, June? I thought we were having a good time.”

  She lunges for him, fingers curled into claws, and I have to lower one arm to wrap it around her waist to keep her from putting herself between my would-be targets and me.

  The host returns. He tosses the coat at me…as if I’d be dumb enough to try to catch it and lose my advantage. It hits the ground and June scoops it up, throwing it over her shoulders.

  “Now, we’re going to walk out of here, and so help me, if any of you try anything, I will shoot out Lepke’s testicles like balloons at the fair, even if they are such tiny targets,” I say, holding his gaze.

  Finally, with a blustering laugh, he drops his hands. “Let’em go, boys. I’ve had my fun.”

  I want to hand my spare piece over to June to cover my back as we walk, but I don’t dare put the weapon in her hands just now, fearing she’ll shoot the scumbag dead and we’d have an all-out war on our hands.

  But a voice inside me roars to life. It’s unreasonable, adding fuel to the already-burning rage in my veins. The voice demands revenge, demands I fire straight into his head, then watch as the blood spills from his body.

  He deserves it, the voice screams.

  It sounds a lot like my father’s. That is the only thing that stops me, the only thing that holds me back.

  As we pass by Lepke, he puckers his lips, blowing a kiss in o
ur direction. Without thinking, I step forward and slap him across the face, gun still in hand. He hits the ground, cradling his now-bloody cheek. His guards flinch, some moving toward him, some toward me. I wave the other gun, and they raise their hands once more.

  As soon as we back from the coatroom, moving through the club with all eyes on us, I take a moment to breathe, to fight back my darker impulses. Once I’m out, I can breathe again. Behind me, June fumbles with the lock, finally freeing it and pulling the green door open.

  “You come see me anytime,” Lepke calls to June, smiling sadistically though my hit has done its damage and his teeth are pink with blood. “You too, doll face. We could have some real fun, you and me.”

  I step forward, closing the distance between us in the blink of an eye. Before his guards can even think to stop me, I press the barrel of one gun under his chin, the other into his groin. “Lepke, if you ever see my face again, you’d better make peace with the dear Lord because it will be the last thing you’ll ever see on this earth.”

  I step back, tucking the smaller gun back into my garter. Motioning to the crowd, still seated but now staring at us, I wave the pistol around the room with a laugh.

  “Relax, everyone. Drink up. Carpe noctem and all that jazz.”

  With that, I’m out the door, helping June into the back of a taxi as we speed off into the night.

  Back home, I sit on the edge of my bed, gently dabbing the peroxide-soaked cotton ball to the fresh cut beneath June’s swollen lip, making her hiss and pull away. My hands are still shaking, the last of the adrenaline bleeding from my veins. I crack my knuckles, as if I can force the quaking to subside.

  “June, what happened?” I ask, taking careful account of each bruise, each welt visible through the tattered remains of her party dress. “Why in the world did you go to Lepke’s?”

  I blink, tossing the now-bloodied cotton on the silver tray of bandages sitting on my bed. It isn’t the first time I’ve had to nurse someone—though it’s usually Daddy or JD—and our house is well stocked with first aid supplies. One of the few upsides of having a gangster as a father is at least the gauze and boric ointment are always on hand.