Lucky for us, neither JD nor Daddy had been home when we got back, since we had to take the main entrance back up. June was too banged up to take the stairs in the servant’s entrance, and I’d given the elevator man a wad of bills to ensure his silence about the whole affair.
Daddy probably opted, as he often does, to rest his head at one of the many apartments he keeps for entertaining his mistresses. JD was who knows where doing who knows what.
Sniffling, June explains. “JD and I had a fight, as usual.” She pauses, taking a deep breath, then wincing on the exhale. “I was upset so I went down to Chelsea, to that new place that just opened, and I had a few drinks. After a bit, Lepke Brewer came in and started buying. I figured we could go out, have a few laughs, and maybe make JD a little jealous in the process.”
I frown, and she rolls her eyes.
“I know, Masie. I know. But I was so lonely and sad. JD just makes me crazy like that sometimes.”
Yes, they have the very definition of an on again-off again relationship. Constantly waffling between passionate adoration and cold indifference. It isn’t the first time she’s used some Joe to try to make JD rethink her value. Normally, it works.
I say nothing, so she continues. “Anyway, we go to dinner at Marcolli’s uptown. And maybe I let him get a little fresh over the entree. But the lights were on us, and I wanted to be sure word would get back to JD. So after dinner, we headed back to his club to dance and drink. Next thing I know, he’s pulled me into the back room and he’s got his hand up my dress. I…” Her voice breaks now. The next words wobble their way out of her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. “I tried to tell him no. I tried to push him away. He called me a tease, and he…”
She doesn’t have to continue; I’d seen more than enough to fill in the rest. Gritting my teeth, I force the image from my mind.
“You have to help me; JD can’t find out. He’d never have me back, not after this.” She sniffles in earnest, her eyes wild with desperation. “I can’t lose him, Masie. He’s my whole world.”
I hold her for a long time, letting her cry until her sobs settle. Running my hands down the sides of her head, I kiss her forehead gently. “Alright. I’m going to run you a bath, then we’ll get some ice on that eye. You can hole up in here with me today, and we’ll cover what we can with makeup. Write a letter to JD and tell him you’ve gone to your mother’s place upstate to get some air and calm down. You can hide out until you’re back on your feet.”
“Do you think Lepke will say something?” she asks, her eyes bloodshot and puffy.
I wrinkle my nose. “And let the whole world know that some dame got the drop on him? Never. He’s probably got the whole mess covered up by now. But that means there’s no witnesses, no one who can confirm your side of the story except me. If you want to go to the cops, we will. I’ll back you up.”
“I can’t,” she says, grinding her teeth. “Promise me you won’t say anything.”
It takes me a moment to answer, but only because the whole thing is so disgustingly unfair. “I promise, June.”
Nodding wordlessly, she curls up in my bed, her black, beaded dress rumpled and her fishnet stockings ripped beyond mending. I make my way down the hall to the large Grecian-inspired bathroom and run her a hot bath, pouring a full cup of lavender salts into the copper tub. All the while, rage continues to build inside me.
It’s not like the police could do anything anyway; everyone saw them flirting, and it’d be his word against hers. And besides, a man like that probably has enough cops in his pocket to make any charge they might level vanish before breakfast. And even if JD did believe her, there’s only so much he can do without going to all-out war. He’d strike back at Lepke somehow, sure, but at the end of the day, she’s right. It wouldn’t matter. JD couldn’t take her back if this went public. She’d be damaged goods. Tainted. And all because that schmuck didn’t understand the meaning of the word no. Hell, dogs understand what no means. And when dogs attack people, they get put down for it.
A sickening double standard to be sure, but there it is.
Lepke.
I roll the name around in my head like a curse.
Glancing back over my shoulder toward my room, toward June, I know what I must do.
For the most part, it suits me just fine to let people think I’m just some silly girl, some empty-headed dame. Because what it means is they never see me coming, never suspect I’m capable of doing terrible things.
But I am my father’s daughter.
I was born to violence like a fish is born to water. It’s part of me, part of who I am. All my life, I’ve watched the people around me suffer—the women most of all. It’s a fact of this life that oftentimes, shots are fired, grievances aired, and warnings sent through the women around the powerful men. They are soft targets. Disposable, but cared for enough to make a point.
In this business, women are nothing more than weaknesses to be guarded and fodder to be thrown when needed. Pawns in a game we aren’t even allowed to play. It’s one of the reasons I was so glad when Mother sent me off to private school upstate. For a few months, I’d felt normal. Safe.
Being called back to the life after losing her was like suddenly having an axe hanging over my head. I’d even considered running away for a while. But I quickly realized this is where I belong, even if I might wish otherwise. I know my part, and I can play it as well as any Hollywood starlet. I know I should be appalled, bereaved that things like this come so easily to me. But I let that grief, and the dreams of being anything other than what I am, go a long time ago. And so, I stay.
But Lepke isn’t going to get away with this. Not this time.
I drag my hand through the water, mixing in the salts as I cement my plan in my head. As soon as I deposit June in the tub, I steal away to the den to make a call.
“Hello?” Vincent Coll’s groggy voice reverberates through the receiver.
“It’s Masie. I need a favor.”
“What’s up, doll?”
I hesitate, biting my bottom lip. It’s then I notice the smear of blood on my dress. “I have blood on me, Vinnie,” I say, more to myself than him, but his tone heightens with his next words.
“Are you alright?”
“It’s not my blood,” I clarify. “It’s the blood of someone I care about, though.”
He calms again. “What do you need?”
“Lepke Brewer.” I spit the name, unable to quite put into words how I want him to suffer. How much I want him to hurt.
On the other end of the line, there’s a deep sigh, followed by the sound of a lighter flicking and Vinnie taking a long drag. Once a childhood friend, Vinnie is now a dangerously unstable man on a good day. But I know he’ll do what I’m about to ask without breathing a word of it to anyone—not out of loyalty to me or sympathy for June and what had happened to her, but for the sheer opportunity to level some brutality on a rival.
Most people call him Mad Dog, thanks to his reputation for being about as well tempered as a rabid animal. But to me, he’s just Vinnie, the young boy who’d come to stay with us after being expelled from the Catholic Reform School his mother had abandoned him at. We’d spent our formative years together, thick as thieves, until he took up the role as Daddy’s enforcer and hit man. He’d changed after that.
Hell, we’d both changed. And neither of us for the better.
I roll the memory of him around in my head, biting the inside of my cheek as I decide what to say next. We haven’t been close in a very long time, and that’s the way it has to be. He must be hard to do what he does. Must have no weaknesses for our enemies to exploit. And if I’m being honest, there’s a darkness to him that terrifies me. Not because I don’t understand it, but because I do. I know exactly how easy it would be to allow myself to be consumed by the violence of this life—and how good I would be at it.
But that’s not the person I want to be.
Even so, here I am, about to ask him to do the dirty w
ork for me, just so I can keep my hands a little bit clean.
“You want him taken care of?” he asks finally.
I suck in a breath before answering. Yes, I want him dead. I want him wiped from the face of the earth, so he can’t ever hurt anyone again. I imagine myself saying yes. Imagine myself throwing a fistful of dirt onto Lepke’s coffin as it’s lowered into the ground. And then I imagine trying to look at myself in the mirror every day after that.
“I want him to hurt,” I say after a moment. “I want him to be broken to the core of him. But leave him breathing.”
Leave it to Vinnie to echo my own fears back to me. “You sure about this, Mas?” he asks, taking another drag and exhaling it slowly. “It’s not going to keep you up at night?”
It’s a barb from an accusation I’d leveled at him the last time we’d spoken, when I’d asked how he slept at night after all he’d done. His answer had been crude and aimed to hurt me. Mine would be much kinder.
“I suppose I will have to find a way to live with myself,” I answer, keeping my tone indifferent.
He hangs up without even saying goodbye.
I hold the receiver in my hand for a few heartbeats before returning it to its cradle. JD is being groomed to take over the family business, despite Daddy’s constant berating that he’s too softhearted or slow-witted or whatever insult he feels like hurling in the moment for the job. I’ve never stepped in and asked for a place in the business. I’m just the girl, after all, to be coddled, protected, and mollified. If Daddy had seen me tonight, would he rethink the line of ascension?
And I can’t help but wonder what life would be like for me if he did.
The streets hum with the rhythm of the city, motor cars rolling down the boulevard, shops opening, people setting out for the day, their smart shoes clacking against the pavement. I take a deep breath, letting it all back in. The normally stale city air is fresh from last night’s rain, the remaining puddles quickly evaporating as the sun rises, warming the air.
I’d hit the pavement at sunrise, a list of places looking for help scribbled on a scrap of paper in my billfold. Ma had gotten up early and swiped the neighbor’s newspaper long enough to copy the wanted ads for me before returning it. I’ve already hit the cannery, the appliance store, and the local grocery, only to be turned away a split second after they found out I was a recently released felon.
As I step out of the deli, I pull the paper from my pocket and strike off the final address before balling it up and tossing it in the wastebasket near the door. The butcher, at least, had offered me a sad sort of apology before hustling me out of his shop.
A heavy noise makes me jump and turn toward the sound. I’d mistaken it for gunfire, but it was just a local newsie dropping a stack of papers outside the deli.
“Is that Bad Luck Benny I see?” a familiar voice calls out, putting one hand on my shoulder and turning me around. “Finally outta the clink and back on the mean streets?”
“Dickey,” I answer, turning to offer my friend a warm hug and a pat on the back. “I never thought I’d be so glad to see your ugly mug.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” he says with a half grin. “When did you get out?”
“Yesterday,” I say, looking him over.
“What brings you to this side of town?”
I shrug. “Trying to pick up some work. Ma really needs the help and Aggie’s been sick, so we got lots of doctor bills.” I swallow, almost hating what I’m about to do. But I’m out of options, and I need some cash fast. “I’m really glad I ran into you.”
“Why?” He hits me with his elbow playfully. “I owe you money or sumthin’?”
Richard ‘Dickey’ Lewis has been my friend since elementary school. He’s been living in a flop house since his old man tossed him out on his ear for losing his mother’s good pearls in a hand of poker. He’s easily gotten me into as much trouble as he’s gotten me out of over the years, but he’s as loyal as they come. And even better, he’s always got some sort of gig up his sleeve, even if it isn’t always on the level. I lick my lips, glancing back at the deli one last time before I speak. This is it, I decide. I’m officially out of options.
“Those are some glad rags you’re wearing there, Dickey. You come into some scratch?” I ask, pretending to admire his grey tweed suit and two-tone brogues. He looks less like the scrawny pickpocket who used to work the crowds at the pier and more like a genuine fella.
He pinches his sleeves, showing off. “Got a few box jobs while you were gone.”
I hide my surprise. Safecracking was never his strongest skill; he’s far too clumsy and fat fingered for that. Normally, I’d make a crack about it, but I figure it’s best not to stir the pot when I’m about to ask for his help.
“Listen, I’m in a tight spot just now. You know of any jobs I might step into?”
He wipes his face. “I might know of some people looking for a decent outside man.”
I frown. Of course the first job he’d throw at me would have the potential to land me back in the clink. “Anything a little more on the up and up? I could use something on the regular, not just a one-time score.”
He grins, his blue eyes dancing as he pulls a pack of Luckys out of his pocket and lights one, taking a long drag and exhaling as he talks.
“I can probably get you into the gig I’m working right now. It pays ten dollars a day. Better than you’ll get at the docks this time of year.”
I scratch the back of my head. “What’s the job?”
He grins, jerking his head for me to follow him down the street. We turn a corner and see a handful of men unloading a truck full of crates into a small warehouse. “Shipping and delivery.”
“What’s in the crates?” I ask, not fooled for a moment by his calm demeanor.
He shrugs, tossing the cigarette to the ground and stomping it with the toe of his shoe. “Does it matter? It’s a fair wage for honest work.”
I swing my gaze back to him. “I didn’t know you knew what honest work was, Dickey.”
He slaps my back. “Relax, Benny. When have I ever led you south?”
“I can think of a few times,” I offer with a grin.
He wags his eyebrows shamelessly and walks toward the men loading crates. I watch them greet him before lowering my chin and following. Dickey is many things, but he’s not often wrong. Ten dollars a day is twice what Ma is making, and considering my recent troubles, I doubt I’ll find anything else that pays even close—and that’s if I can even find someone willing to hire me at all.
When I catch up, he leans over to a tall fella standing beside the truck. His clothes are nicer than Dickeys’ are, a pinstripe suit with leather gloves and a stark white pocket square. His hair is combed back in a gentlemanly fashion, his jaw sharp and his face freshly shaven.
Dickey chats with the man for a few minutes, then waves me over.
“JD, this is Benny. He’s the fella I was telling you about.”
I hold out my hand, and he shakes it half-heartedly.
“Dickey tells me you’re looking for work.”
I nod. “Yes sir. I’m no rube. I’m a hard worker, and I can keep my mouth shut.”
“Don’t you want to know what kinda work this is?”
I take a breath, looking him in the eye. “No, sir. You give me a job, and I’ll do it. Don’t much care what it is.”
He takes a notebook out of his back pocket and flips it open. After tearing off a page, he hands it to me. “There’s a delivery being made at this address in an hour. You go, help Dickey and the boys unload, then ride back to the warehouse in the truck. I’ll pay you a half-day’s wage today, and if you’re a good worker, there’ll be more tomorrow. Alright?”
I nod, taking the folded slip of paper. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He grins. “Don’t call me sir. Name’s John David Schultz.” He pats the side of the truck that reads Schultz Shipping. “But my boys call me JD.”
I glance at the address, then tuck
the paper in my pocket. Dickey pats the truck twice before we cross the street and make a line for the street car that will take us downtown to the address he’d given me.
It’s a long, backbreaking day. I’m not sure what’s in the crates, but they’re heavy enough to be headstones. By the time the truck is unloaded, the muscles in my neck, back, and arms ache. Dickey and I climb into the back of the now-empty truck and ride along to the shipping warehouse down by the docks. Once we pull in, we hop out and gather with the rest of the fellas as we wait for JD to arrive.
Some of the guys I’d seen at the first job are sitting around a rickety table playing cards when JD finally pulls in, the tires of his Lincoln sedan screeching to a stop. My jaw snaps closed as I stare at the car. It’s gotta be a coincidence that it looks just like the car I saw dropping bodies on the street yesterday. There’s gotta be dozens of them in the city, and I hadn’t looked close enough to make out any details. Even as I think it, a shiver crawls up my spine that tells me otherwise.
“Dickey, who is this guy?” I ask under my breath.
Beside me, Dickey smirks.
“JD’s the son of Dutch Schultz. He owns the shipping company and a club on the Upper West Side. I heard he just bought a new place in Midtown, too.”
As soon as he says it, my mind makes the connection, and a chill courses through me. Dutch Shultz the only major non-Italian gangster in the city. Once in business with Joey Noe, his name had been bandied about as the next big player to hit the city. From what I’ve heard, he keeps low key—unlike the other notorious players in the ongoing turf war—and as far as I know, he’s never been caught being anything other than above board. Of course, greasing the right palms can do that for a person. He also controls the largest fleet of trucks in the city and—if the rumors are to be believed—has a certain local police chief in his club every Friday night for cards and drinks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. Of course it was his car I saw. I can only hope whoever was behind the wheel doesn’t recognize me as a witness.
The Canary Club Page 3
