The Canary Club

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  She rolls to the side, now pressing her back against the cabinet. “Of course I am, Benjamin. I was born to the life. I’ve got gun smoke and Quick Lyme in my blood.”

  “A mob moll with the voice of an angel,” I joke.

  With one hand, she draws up the hem of her dress, her nails grazing the stockings until her red garter is revealed, along with the tiny gun it holds at her thigh. “I’m no angel, Benjamin. I never start a fight, but I can damn sure end one, and that’s the honest truth. I’m just a girl, doing the best she can. Which begs the question—what are you?”

  It’s in that moment I realize what she’s really doing…trying to prepare me for the harsh reality of what I’ve signed up for. She must think I can’t handle it, that I’m too inexperienced to protect her. What makes me the angriest is that she’s not wrong.

  Determined to prove my worth, I pick up the revolver she discarded. “I suppose we’ll find out together.”

  As soon as he picks up the revolver, I step back. He’s probably never held a gun in his life, but there’s no way I’m going to have him running around completely unarmed, especially not with Vin—Mad Dog out looking to start trouble.

  “My family, we have dangerous enemies, and sometimes, even more dangerous friends. I just want you to be able to defend yourself, Benjamin,” I say, clenching my hands into fists at my sides.

  He turns to me, an expression of concern forming across his features. Discarding the gun, he reaches out, taking me by the arms. “Are you alright, Masie? You look shaken.”

  I hesitate, partly because the gesture is oddly comforting, partly because I’m not sure how to respond. Curse this boy, something about him… Before I know it, the truth is spilling from my lips.

  “A fella I grew up with—he was like part of the family really—he’s…he’s become someone I don’t know anymore. Someone dangerous. Last night at the club, he told me to leave town.”

  “If you’re afraid he’s going to hurt you—” Benjamin begins, but I don’t let him finish.

  “I don’t think he’d hurt me, not deliberately at least. But he’s gunning for the boys. He as much as said so.” I shrug. “Which is nothing new really. In this business, there’s always someone who wants to take you down. But he was such a good kid. This life, it did things to him. Changed him. And I suppose I’m partly to blame.”

  Benjamin raises a hand, motioning me to have a seat on the long bench in the center of the room. I do, and he follows.

  “Masie, I am truly sorry about your friend. But I don’t think you can take the blame for what happened. He made his choices, just like the rest of us. And every choice we make, it leads us down a road. Maybe it wasn’t the road you would have chosen for him, but it was never your path to choose.”

  He presses his lips together solemnly.

  I look away, my gaze falling on my shoes where I hold it, fighting to block out the memory of our last encounter. “You’re right, of course. It’s still hard. It’s an awful thing, watching people you care about get turned upside down and inside out. But that’s what this life does to you.”

  Beside me, Benjamin goes very still, taking a deep breath before speaking. “And you’re afraid I’ll go down the same road as him, aren’t you?”

  I chew at my bottom lip, debating how much to admit. “Would you blame me if I were? I’ve seen this life, this business, take good men and chew them up until there was nothing recognizable left. I watched it happen to my father, my brother, then my dearest friend. I don’t think I could stand it if that happened to you as well.”

  With a thumb, he lifts my chin so I’m facing him once more. “Then I give you my solemn promise that it won’t. No matter what. And if you see me headed down a wrong road, feel free to shoot me yourself.”

  I raise one eyebrow. “And I absolutely will, too.”

  He nods, grinning. “I have no doubt. But aim for something I won’t mind losing, okay?”

  I shrug, the tension slipping from my shoulders. “No promises.”

  He nudges me playfully. “And in the meantime, I will arm myself, if only to better defend those I hold dear.”

  He moves to stand, but I tug him back to his seat. “Promise me, Benjamin, promise me if my father ever asks you to cross a line, to do something truly awful, that you’ll say no. Promise me.”

  The weight of my request hangs between us. It’s a terrible thing to make him swear to disobey my father, a man who could, and easily would, kill someone for such an offence. But I won’t accept any less. I’d rather him be on the run far from here than to become the person Vincent did.

  Would I rather he be killed? a small voice in my mind asks.

  But I don’t have an answer for myself.

  He holds my gaze, his eyes locking onto mine. “I promise.”

  I drop Masie back at her place, and Albert drives me home. He offers to help me carry the boxes up, but I wave him off. The poor old fella’d just as likely take a tumble down the stairs, and I’d hate to cost him his gig. The way Thomas and Aggie go through the boxes, you’d think it was Christmas. They ball up the wrappings and toss it aside before carefully hanging each jacket in the closet, then folding each shirt and making room for it in the dresser. I don’t have time to help. Masie requested I pick her up early so she might have dinner at the club before she has to perform, so I need to shower and change quickly. I fix the twins some chicken and potatoes while still in just my towel, then settle them down to eat before dressing. I’m nearly ready when I realize what I’m missing. Making my way to Ma’s room, I open the top drawer of her bureau and remove a tan box. Cracking it open, I take a moment to run my thumb over the gold and pearl cufflinks before pouring them into my palm and threading them into my sleeves.

  Pa’s cufflinks. The only valuable belonging Ma had been unable to part with. The pocket watch, well, that was supposed to be mine someday. Even with its loss, these are meant to go to little Thomas. As soon as I can, I’ll get a set of my own and return these to their box to wait for that day. But for tonight, they’ll have to do.

  After grabbing a trolley to Park Avenue, I am quickly ushered into the building by the night doorman and ride the gilded elevator to the penthouse. The butler sees me inside and takes my jacket and hat before leading me to the library to wait for Masie.

  The room is impressive, floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves cradling row after row of novels. Stepping forward, I run my hand along the spines, reading what titles I can. Several volumes are in German, others Latin or French. A few I recognize, others I can only guess upon. Curious, I slide one particularly worn spine from its space.

  “The Magician,” a light voice calls from across the room. “Are you a fan of Maugham?”

  Looking up, I see Masie leaning against the door in her singularly relaxed manner, her chin high, one shoulder drawn forward, a bemused smirk settled across her full lips.

  “No, I’ve never read it. But I saw a street magician in Harlem once. He made a monkey disappear.”

  “How terrible for the monkey.”

  I feel myself flush at her words. Her tone, friendly but mocking, reminds me I am not her equal, despite our earlier closeness. Not in any imaginable way. Quickly sliding the tome back on the shelf, I turn to face her fully.

  “Are you ready, Miss?”

  She clicks her tongue and pushes off the door, slinking toward me. “I told you, it’s just Masie.”

  “And do you let your regular guard address you so informally?”

  Each step she takes in my direction resonates inside me, an unfamiliar ache punctuated by each inch separating us, until she finally stops. Reaching up, she adjusts my tie, her eyes not meeting my own. I take a breath, trying to ignore the strange, magnetic pull I feel toward her, but only manage to inhale the heady scent of gardenia riding on the undercurrent of gin—the unique and undeniable scent of Masie. Closing my eyes, I hold the breath until my lungs threaten to burst before releasing it. When I open my eyes again, her storm-grey gaze is fixed o
n mine.

  “Admittedly no, but then…” She hesitates, and my heart pounds in anticipation of her words. Lowering her chin, she sighs. “I suppose I am a fickle creature, like most women. We always want what we cannot have.”

  My chest swells even as she turns away. It’s shallow consolation that she might feel the same about me as I do about her. Is it only the impossibility of it that pulls us toward each other? I shake my head, wondering if she’s right.

  “Forbidden fruit?” I ask, watching her walk away, committing to memory each sway of her hips, each clap of her t-strap shoes across the marble floor, each glimmer of light shining off her sunshine curls. I pull to mind the feel of her arms in my hands, the touch of my thumb on the tip of her chin. Somehow, virtually alone in that little room, we’d made a connection. Only now, back in the harsh reality of our positions, it seems more like a dream than a memory, so much so that I begin to wonder if it had actually happened at all.

  She spins in the doorway, sending the long, golden beads of her red dress whipping across her. “Precisely.”

  Seeming to have shed herself from the momentary melancholy, she grins radiantly. “Let’s be on our way now, Benjamin. I am meeting a dear friend for supper, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  It’s barely dusk when we arrive at the club, too early for the flappers and daddys to be out just yet, but even so, the night crowd is beginning to spill out onto the streets. Ushered inside through the private entrance, we head downstairs, past the dressing rooms and into the heart of the club. The band isn’t on stage yet, so a gramophone is playing slow melodies from the corner of the room. A handful of diners sit at the candlelit tables. They’re dressed to the nines, chatting, laughing, drinking giggle water from tall, bell-shaped glasses. Masie shrugs out of her fur drape and hands it to the waiter. I pull out her chair, and she relaxes into it gracefully. When I move to stand in a nearby corner, she holds up one bangled hand, crooking her finger in my direction.

  “Yes, Masie?” I ask, stepping toward her.

  She points to one of the four empty seats. “You’re not going to make me sit here all alone, are you?”

  I stammer my reply. “I, uh, assumed your friend would be along shortly.”

  “Even so, have a drink with me.” She waves to the waiter, making a two-finger gesture with her hand.

  “I shouldn’t,” I say, reminding her I’m not her guest, but her employee. Her frown at my words makes me instantly regret them. “That is, I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re in favor of the eighteenth amendment?” she offers with a light, twinkling laugh.

  “No, it’s not that,” I say quickly.

  “Then what is it?”

  I clear my throat, picking absently at the linen tucked beside the plate in front of me. “My pa, he was a drinker.”

  Her smile falls. Stretching an arm across the table, she covers my hand with her own. “I take it he wasn’t pleasant when he imbibed?”

  I shake my head, sliding my hand out from under hers. “You could say that.”

  The waiter hurries over with a bottle, showing it to her before popping the cork and filling two tall glasses with the bubbly.

  She raises a glass to me. “Well, Benjamin, here’s to not being like our parents.”

  Reluctantly, I raise my glass, toasting with her.

  As soon as I take a sip, flavor explodes across my tongue. “This is really good,” I say, forcing myself not to drain the entire glass.

  She sits back in her chair. “It better be; that’s a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne.”

  Lurching forward, I nearly spit the frothy liquid out of my mouth, forcing myself to swallow so I can cough some air back into my lungs.

  “A hundred clams?” I stare at the glass. It’s good, but I don’t know if anything could ever be that good.

  She opens her mouth to say something, but the sound is drowned out by the woman who just entered the club. Her voice is high, nasal, and full of near-forced giddiness.

  “My darling Masie.” She claps her hands. “What a dreadful time I’ve had today.”

  Stripping off her gloves and hat and half-tossing them at the doorman, she strides into the room, gesturing wildly with her hands. “New York is far too crowded these days.”

  Masie stands, crossing the distance between them, and offers her friend a kiss on each cheek, motioning her to the table. I get up, sliding my chair back and pulling out a seat for the dramatic brunette. Her face is heavily rouged, but beneath that is a true beauty. Her brown eyes are wide and fawn-like, her nose a perfect slope. Even her long, olive-green and silver beaded gown, which might seem gaudy on someone else, seems perfectly complementary to her. Folding herself into her seat, she reaches up, her hands smoothing out her straight, chin-length hair.

  “It took nearly forty-five minutes to take a cab from the hotel; the streets are absolutely crawling with people. How do you tolerate the crowding? It’s simply suffocating.”

  Unsure what to do, I remain standing long after both ladies have taken their seats. Noticing me for the first time, she turns her chin my direction. “And who is this handsome gentleman?”

  Masie waves in my direction. “Zelda, this is my friend Benjamin. Benjamin, this is my dear friend Zelda Fitzgerald.”

  She holds out her hand and I take it, grazing a chaste kiss across the back of her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I offer, realizing who she is the moment Masie says her name.

  “Le sentiment est réciproque,” she responds, the words rolling off her tongue.

  “Zelda is visiting from Paris,” Masie explains. “Won’t you join us for dinner, Benjamin?”

  “Yes, please,” Zelda chimes in. “I insist.”

  Unable to refuse, I take my seat. The waiter brings over and pours another glass, which Zelda drains immediately before lighting up a cigarette. She offers one to Masie, then to me, but we politely refuse.

  “I’m singing tonight,” Masie jokes. “Gotta keep the pipes clear.”

  “Music is such a foreign art to me. Of all my endeavors, it’s the one I’ve never quite been able to master,” Zelda retorts, offering a playfully humble glance in my direction.

  I can’t help but grin. Her voice, shrill as it is, would no doubt bring every stray cat in the city to her doorstep. Even as the thought appears, I remember June’s words about fishing for a compliment.

  “I’m sure an accomplished woman such as yourself can achieve any endeavor you choose.”

  That earns me a genuine smile. “True, of course. I’ve decided to take up ballet again in Paris. I studied it during my formative years, and I was always told what an exceptional talent I had, so I thought, why not? Scott’s always so lost in his own work, so what’s holding me back?”

  Her husband, the wildly famous F. Scott Fitzgerald, is the author of one of my very favorite novels. This Side of Paradise had been one of the few books donated to the prison library that caught my eye, and it had stuck with me long after finishing it.

  “I must say,” I began, “your husband is an incredibly talented writer.”

  She frowns, scoffing. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  Not sure how to take her words, I sit back until the waiter returns with the first course, small round crackers and an unfamiliar lumpy spread. Letting the ladies eat first, I mimic their actions, holding the round just so and using the small flat knife to apply the spread before taking my first bite. It’s salty, though not overly so, yet the texture bothers me so much I have to take a long drink of champagne to wash it down.

  “Tell me, Benny, how old are you? You look fresh as a baby,” Zelda asks between bites.

  “Nearly eighteen, ma’am.”

  She smirks knowingly. “And how long have you been in the life?”

  I don’t have a chance to answer before she continues, “I mean, Masie told me of your recent heroics. I just wonder how long you’ve had your eye on all this.” She motions arou
nd the room with one hand, taking a long draw off her Lucky with the other.

  I shake my head. “I’m no social climber.” I try to keep from sounding offended at the suggestion but fail. “I fully mean to make my own way in the world. This is just…”

  I hesitate because the full weight of Masie’s gaze falls upon me.

  Admittedly, I was going to say temporary, but with Masie’s grey eyes drilling into me, I can’t seem to manage it.

  “This is just a stepping stone,” I finish finally. “A way to earn enough dough for college, to take care of my family in the meantime.”

  Now Zelda is absolutely sparkling with delight. “A college man, how spiffy. Princeton, perhaps?”

  I flush at her words. Light as they are, they cut like a razor. She must know full well a place like that is beyond me.

  “Or something smaller,” I say flatly, taking another drink.

  She leans back, fanning herself with a row of feathers she’s produced from somewhere in the folds of her gown. “Don’t sell yourself short. Masie’s father has many connections. One good word from him, and the sky’s the limit. As a matter of fact… Masie, aren’t you planning on the Ivy League? Vasser, perhaps?”

  Now it’s Masie’s turn to frown. “That was the plan, though since Mother…” She trips on the word. “Since she passed, Daddy has decided I’m better off close to home.”

  Zelda’s mood sours as she downs another glass of bubbly. “And that is the greatest tragedy of our generation, my darling, that women must always be under the thumb of a man. First her father, then her husband. One wonders why we were given brains at all when we are denied the ability to think for ourselves.”

  Just then, Dickey walks in the door, JD only a few steps behind. JD jerks his head in a come here gesture.

  Scooting out of my chair, I lay my linen napkin across my empty plate. “If you ladies will excuse me for a moment.”

  I join the boys at the bar where JD takes a shot of whisky before speaking.