“Listen, Benny. We got word one of our competitors is looking to take a run at us while Dutch’s gone. I want Masie taken home right after her set tonight. Me and the boys are gonna be watching the door here, and we’ve got a few guys posted around town at the warehouses.”
I can’t help but wonder if this is the friend Masie had spoken about, but I bite back the question. “Sure thing, JD. Is there anything I can do?”
He wipes his hand down his chin. “Just keep an eye on my sister. These mooks like to hit us where we’re soft.”
“Will do.”
“You packing heat, just in case things get hairy?” Dickey asks as I turn back to the table.
I nod.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” he quips, slapping a hand on the back of my neck. “My little Benny is becoming a man.”
I brush him off. “Very funny. Where are you in all this?”
He shakes his shoulders, tugging his jacket. “I’m headed up the street to watch the back entrance.”
I nod once, then head back to the table. I’m still a few tables away when I begin to pick up pieces of their conversation.
“Oh, I know, dear. I had an affair with my own guard once. He was delightful—for a time. Though I at least had the decency to get married first.”
“Zelda, this truly isn’t—”
Masie is cut off by her friend. “All I’m saying, my darling, is to marry the money—not the help. A man should make something of himself before you consider him.”
“I’m not marrying anyone, Zelda. For heaven’s sake, I’m barely seventeen,” she scoffs.
“Better now, while you have the good looks and perky bosom to snag a fella, than to wait till the fruit’s gotten overripe,” Zelda says with a laugh. “Though your dowry is probably large enough to make any man overlook such things.”
“Ladies,” I say, taking my seat.
“Is everything alright?” Masie asks. “We took the liberty of ordering for you. I assume duck confit is alright?”
Truthfully, I’ve never eaten duck in my entire life. “Sounds jake, thank you. And it’s nothing, just business.”
“What he means is it’s nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over. Isn’t that right?”
Zelda’s tone is scathing. Squaring my shoulders, I stare her down. I’ve had just about enough of Masie’s friend. “On the contrary, I fully plan to discuss the issue with Masie, but we are not in the habit of talking business in polite company.”
She takes another long drag off her cigarette, pointing a finger at me as she exhales, “Darling, I’m neither polite nor company.”
As our dishes arrive, the girls continue chatting, pausing only occasionally to ask my opinion on this or that. I try to listen politely while also keeping distant. Rather, I focus on the room around me, making note of every face that rolls in the door, watching the waiters, bartenders, and staff for any sign of issues. I barely taste the duck except to notice how succulent it is as the juice from my first bite dribbles down my chin, managing to catch it with my napkin before anyone notices.
Zelda, for her part, alternates flirting with me and cutting me down. Her mood fluctuates like the seasons. One moment, she’s warm. The next, frigid. As the night rolls on, the club fills. It seems the legendary Fitzgerald has let word slip about her visit. Soon, all manner of hangers-on arrive. They fawn over her as if she were the queen of Sheba, hanging on every—often nonsensical—word. The liquor flows more freely than the night before, much of it consumed by Zelda herself, and the entire crowd is riotously bent.
Masie heads to her dressing room to change for the show. After a quick sweep of her room, I opt for a post near the stage, where I can get a full view of the assembly. When Masie comes out, the cheers are deafening. She and the band strike up a quick tune, The Charleston. She doesn’t slow down for a moment. Five songs later, the rhythm of the club is trance educing. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes moving, Masie at my back, as I watch for any sign of danger.
A handful of cops sit at one table, each with a giggle girl on their lap as they drink and smoke sweet-smelling cigars. At the bar behind them, a judge I remember from my own farce of a trial sits, neck deep in bourbon. Beside him is a bald, bespectacled man I’m fairly sure is a senator. And not least of all, Alistair Rothchild has arrived and is sitting at a bench, whispering to Zelda. He keeps one hand on her leg, and she giggles at whatever he’s saying.
The presence of these men should make me feel safer, but it only adds to my tension. Which of Dutch’s enemies would be crazy enough to risk a move with so many influential people in attendance?
Masie finishes her final song to thunderous cheers and steps off the stage, leaving the band to continue without her. I gently take her arm, drawing her into the corner so she can hear me better.
I quickly relate JD’s warning and his instructions to take her home immediately.
She frowns, but nods once. “Fine. Let me say goodbye to Zelda and change.”
Releasing her, I watch as she is drawn once last time into the lavish web of Zelda Fitzgerald, who immediately tugs her by the arm until she falls across Rothchild’s lap. Though he doesn’t take terrible advantage, I watch as he clutches Masie by the waist with one hand, offering her a glass of gin with the other. Masie takes it, offering him a flirtatious smile that makes me grind my teeth. The trio dissolve into a puddle of gin and laughter, and—possibly for the first time since I’d met Masie—I feel the differences between us like an impassible chasm.
When she finally makes her escape, she slinks behind the curtain and down the hall to her dressing room. Once she’s inside, I take a moment to scan the crowd again. The handful of guards are ever vigilant. JD, however, has joined the group hovering around Zelda, who is flirting mercilessly with everyone orbiting her. Behind them, near the secret entrance to Dutch’s private room, a waiter lingers. He’s in the standard black slacks and white short jacket, his hands in white gloves. In one hand, he’s balancing a tray. In the other, he’s retrieving a folded napkin from his pants pocket. It’s the bulk of the napkin combined with his look of general disdain that prompts me to move.
If it’s a gun he’s hiding under that linen, there’s no way I’ll reach him in time. I know it even as I push my way through the crowd. His black hair is parted in the center and slicked back on either side, a wire-thin moustache riding across his upper lip. I’m maybe five steps from him when our eyes connect. He sees me coming and immediately hits the switch that opens the door to the private room. I’m hot on his heels though, and he doesn’t make it far.
Barreling into him, I take us both to the ground. He’s on his face, the tray skittering across the wood floor, exposing the linen napkin and its contents. JD is three beats behind me. As soon as I hear him call my name, I turn, a firm grip on the waiter’s wrists as I wedge them behind his back.
“Benny?”
“I thought he had a gun,” I say, nodding toward the tray and the stack of cash lying half-wrapped in the linen. “He was acting shady, and when he saw me, he ran in here.”
Reaching down, JD helps me hoist the waiter to his feet.
“Tommy, isn’t it?” JD asks, pointing to the money. “Where’d you get the dough?”
In our combined custody, Tommy stutters, “Sir, I…I was…”
In a surprising move, JD pounds the guy in the stomach, making him double over.
“You trying to steal from me? From my family?”
Tommy is in tears now, gasping for breath. “No…no, sir…I just…”
With a shove, JD pushes Tommy to the floor, then turns to me. “I’ll take care of this. You get Masie home.”
I nod, leaving Tommy to JD’s tender care, closing the door behind me. Making my way through the crowd once more, I head down the hall outside Masie’s dressing room. A loud thud draws me to her door.
“Masie, you alright in there?” I put one hand on the knob, twisting.
Locked.
I tap
on the door. “Masie?”
A strangled scream comes in response and I take a step back, kicking the door once, twice, until it finally gives way.
The room is in shambles. The vanity is overturned, its mirror shattered, the chair toppled, and the rack of clothes in a broken heap on the floor. Masie is on the ground, a man I’ve never seen before standing over her, a knife clutched in his meaty fist.
I don’t see the man, who must have been hiding behind my dressing screen, until he’s already on me. Both of his meaty hands wrap around my throat, lifting me from my feet and into the air. I can’t scream—I can scarcely draw breath into my lungs. Black spots erupt in the corners of my vision. In one desperate move, I kick wildly, knocking my tray of perfumes and powders to the floor with a crash. My attacker is thrown off balance. As he struggles to regain himself, I wrench myself free, falling to the ground with a thud. Gasping, I crawl toward the door, but before I can get anywhere, he catches hold of my ankle, dragging me back toward him. I kick out again, this time catching him up high and sending him backward into the vanity. It falls over, the mirror shattering on the floor.
Swearing, he draws a long dagger from the side of his boot. As I catch the gleam of the blade in the dim lamp light, I scream, the sound cutting its way out of my wounded throat.
I’m moving before I can think about moving, and I’m on him before he sees me coming. I get in one solid punch before he slices wildly, clipping me in the arm. Hissing, I lower my head and ram him into the wall. The knife falls from his hand and clatters to the floor. I punch him in the gut. Backing up to put a little space between us, I jab him in the throat, the jaw, then the gut again. He crumples to the floor, and I follow him down. Grabbing his collar, I raise his head up, punching him over and over until my arm is numb, my knuckles surely broken, and his face a ruined, bloody mess.
It’s Masie’s voice that stops me, hoarse and broken.
“Benjamin,” she whispers.
Releasing the attacker, I crawl to her. She’s on the ground, the side of her face red and quickly swelling. I cup her face as gently as I can, inadvertently smearing it with blood. “Are you hurt? What did he do to you?”
With shaking hands, I begin examining her, running my hands down each arm, leg, then holding her neck. It’s only then I remember the small pistol holstered at my side. The weight of it is suddenly a terrible burden, but even as the thought nauseates me, I know with a chilling certainty I’m about to have to use it.
Behind us, the man struggles to his feet, retrieves his knife, and makes a break for it. I move to draw my weapon, but Masie holds me firm. “No, let him go. Just take me home.” She cups my face in her cool hands. “Benjamin, take me home.”
She’s right. I have to get her out of here. Scooping her into my arms, I carry her up the rear stairs. We spill out into the chilly night air, the music from the club wafting out the door and along the boulevard as I motion to her driver to open her door. He obeys surprisingly quickly for a man his age and I slide her in, taking a seat beside her and drawing her onto my lap as I close the door.
“Get us out of here,” I order. As we peel off, I glance back out the rear window, looking for any sign of her attacker, or—maybe more importantly—my friend who was supposed to be keeping watch on that back door.
I see neither.
Masie is quiet on the way home. My heart slows to a steady beat, and I wonder if she can hear it as I cradle her head against my chest. The car swerves against the curb, the engine stuttering to a stop. Albert circles the car and pulls the back door open. Leaning her upright as gently as I can, I step out, turning to help her.
One eye swollen, she slaps my hand away. “I can walk, you know. You don’t need to carry me like some helpless child.”
Her tone surprises me enough that I take a step back, watching as she clutches the door frame for support and steps out. I hold out my hand as she falters just a bit, but she ignores it, brushing past me into the building.
The butler opens the penthouse door before we’ve even left the elevator. She strides in, tossing her fur to the ground and making a straight line to the cart of crystal decanters on a tray in the front room. Her hands shake as she pours a glass of whisky and shoots it back before filling the glass again.
Spinning on her heel, she glares at me.
“Why are you still here?” She waves her empty hand. “Just scoot on home. Your job here is done.”
“Was he the one you told me about? Your friend?” I nearly choke on the word, but she shakes her head.
“No, it wasn’t. I thought at first that it might be, but it was someone else.”
My stomach lurches. I was supposed to protect her, and she’d been attacked on my watch. This is all my fault, and I have no idea how to even begin to apologize for failing her.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you alone here, not after this.”
She takes another long drink. “I’m not alone. Butler is here. Probably the maid as well.”
I fold my arms across my chest.
She rolls her eyes, wandering to the fireplace, drink in hand. Pausing in front of a photo of a woman, she sighs deeply.
“I need to call the club and talk to JD. Maybe he can go after the guy. He should know what happened,” I say, moving toward the candlestick phone.
“Don’t you dare,” she says, grabbing the frame and slapping the photo down so it’s out of sight. “We aren’t telling anyone what happened. Not ever.”
I hesitate, wondering if I’ve misheard her, but her expression is unrelenting.
“Of course we need to tell JD. He has to know what happened. He has to find the person who attacked you…”
She huffs. “Oh, you really are new, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, this is how things work in this world, Benjamin. Why do you think they came at me instead of JD or hell, even one of the trucks? Because that’s how these people operate. It’s how they send messages. You want to hurt a powerful man, an untouchable man, you do it through the women he cares about. See, they go after JD and it’s a declaration of war. They go after me, they hurt my father, they hurt the club, but no real harm done. I’m expendable to them. It’s not the first time.”
“You’ve been attacked like this before?” I can’t hold back my rising anger.
Her expression sobers, “Not me.” Her voice is small, wounded. I want to press but she continues. “We’re nothing to these people.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“Of course it is.” She begins pacing the room in a long circle, hugging the walls. “When Richie Cuzano decided he’d had enough of Legs Diamond running beer through his territory, he sent a man to cut up his girl’s face. Message received. It’s a dangerous life, but it’s even worse for us. Because we’re arm candy. We’re disposable. Replaceable.”
I shake my head, because the idea of what she’s saying is so…reprehensible.
“No, your father loves you. He’d do anything for you,” I say, stepping in front of her to stop her in midstride.
“Exactly,” she says quickly. Motioning to her face, she continues. “This wasn’t meant to be a shot fired. Just a warning from a very powerful man. But my father, he’d hunt the person who did this down and kill him. You don’t think I know that?”
“Then why?”
“Because he would start a war for this. A war we can’t fight, much less win. All it would do is get people, some of whom are innocents, killed in the crossfire. Because that’s what war does. It never destroys the people who need to be destroyed; it just punishes the people who get in the way.”
The side of her face is already a brilliant shade of purple, a nearly perfect handprint slowly becoming visible. I reach out to touch her cheek, but she backs away.
“You can’t hide this,” I offer softly despite the sting her action brings.
She drains the glass. “Of course I can. God knows I’ve done it before. A
nd I’m sure I’ll have to do it again.”
“Who hurt you before?” I demand, a red-hot rage boiling inside me.
Spinning on one foot, Masie hurls the empty glass against the mantle, sending shards of broken crystal flying as I duck reflexively.
“What the hell was that for?” I demand. “I’m trying to help here.”
“I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. You think you can walk into my life with your puppy-dog eyes and slick words and take away all my problems? I’ve got problems you can’t even imagine, problems that would keep you up at night. I handle them just fine on my own. I don’t need you or anyone else to swoop in and save me.” She strides to the table in the corner, lifts a vase of roses, and hurls it across the room at the wall, smashing it to bits, white porcelain and pink petals falling to the ground like rain. The rage rolls off her in waves. For a minute, I’m completely off balance.
I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry.” I take a step toward her, and she flinches. “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through, and I’m sorry you’ve had to live like this. More than anything, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me tonight. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. But I’m not sorry for trying to help you. I’m not sorry for worrying about you, and I’m certainly not sorry for caring.”
She takes a step back and wobbles just a bit. “Just doing your job, right?”
Letting my hands fall to my side, I close the space between us in four long strides. I’m close enough I could reach out and curl my fingers in her hair, but I don’t.
“We both know it’s not just that,” I admit. “I want you to be safe. Just like you want me to be.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but safe is the one luxury I can’t afford,” she mutters, stepping forward and pressing herself against me. “If you were smart, you’d run as far and as fast as you can.” Then her voice changes, barely a desperate whisper. “Please don’t, though. Please don’t leave me.”
Wrapping my arms around her, I allow myself to relax, to breathe in the smell of her as I bury my face into her hair. Soon, the full weight of her body collapses against me and her head lolls to the side. Dipping, I scoop her into my arms once more.
The Canary Club Page 12
