OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
A GIRL DIVIDED
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Ellen Lindseth
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542004763
ISBN-10: 1542004764
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Tim Green
To D—
Keep reaching for those stars;
someday they’ll be yours to hold.
Contents
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
Acknowledgments
General Book Club Discussion Questions
About the Author
Chapter 1
August 1944, Chicago
Snow-white feathers, delicate as moths, fluttered around her in the spotlight. The inevitable castoffs from her fans tickled her as they fell, whisper soft. A few lingered long enough to become stuck to Violet’s sweaty skin. While the band’s clarinet player wailed the melody, the large plumed fans in Violet’s hands covered and uncovered her body in a practiced tease of fantasy and suggestion as she spun. Out in the dark house, the pulse of the audience’s hearts pounded with expectation, urging her onward, driving her faster and faster. Perspiration trickled down her back as she let the audience’s breath become her own. Her blood tingled, the heated gazes caressing her bare skin like an invisible lover’s.
Exhilaration sang through her veins. Gone were the nagging exhaustion and pain of the past few weeks. Gone was all worry about the war that seemed no closer to ending than it had three years ago. Self-recrimination, regret, loneliness . . . all gone. She was—in this moment—loved, adored . . . accepted.
The percussionist picked up the pace, cuing the climax. One breath. Two. She sucked in the smoky blue air, even though it made her lungs burn. Then all at once she stopped her spin, her hands dropping to her sides, baring all. Right on cue, a stagehand cut the lights, leaving her enveloped in a steamy, sultry darkness. The audience roared to life, as they always did. The storm of masculine voices, catcalls and whistles, and the clapping and stomping of large, heavy feet both awed and thrilled her.
Reveling in the moment, she closed her eyes and soaked in the sounds of all that love and appreciation, let it fill every crack of her battered soul. Let it reverberate in her bones.
She savored the high, knowing it would fade all too soon.
Sal would be annoyed, of course, by her delay in clearing the stage, but he would also forgive her. He always did. Or he would once he finished counting the night’s take. She was one of the revue’s most dependable draws.
On the other hand, based on what she could hear out in the dark house, the crowd was smaller tonight than it had been even a month ago. There was just no getting around the fact that more and more boys were being called up on account of the war.
Her elation faded as reality shouldered its way back in. The audience continued to stomp and whistle, but she could almost feel the silence of the empty seats. The adoration of dwindling numbers—no matter how heartfelt—wouldn’t keep the lights on. At some point the well would run dry. And then, no matter how much Sal loved her, the show would close and she would be let go. And be back on the streets, without a dime to her name. Again.
Not thinking about that tonight, Vi.
Lifting her chin, she called up her performer’s high again and sauntered off the stage as if she didn’t have a care in the world. A teenage stagehand waited behind the heavy velvet curtain to take her fans. His gaze never made it above her breasts, which were naked, save for the glittery, star-shaped patches glued to her nipples. He seemed mesmerized by the way they swayed with each step.
Once, years ago, walking around basically naked, exposed to the ogling of unfamiliar men, would have distressed her. Now she could barely remember why it had bothered her. Strange what a girl could get used to when her survival depended on it.
Sal glared briefly over his spectacles at her as she walked by, making sure she knew he was displeased by her tardy departure. Then his attention returned to the trio of female jugglers who had taken the stage. Relieved that he didn’t seem too upset, she grabbed her threadbare silk robe off a painted wooden moon and headed toward the dressing room. Despite the crush of backstage workers, she carried the garment over her arm, reluctant to put it on. The air was so stiflingly hot and humid, she couldn’t bear the idea of fabric on her skin, no matter how light or silky.
August in Chicago was always beastly hot, but this past week had been particularly bad. Sal had finally broken down and installed two big electric fans backstage yesterday to keep the performers from passing out before they even reached the stage. Still, rumors had been circulating that he was considering temporarily halting performances until the heat wave broke. Not only was the sweltering heat hard on the performers but it kept customers away, too.
Vi hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She had bills to pay, and with the recent uptick in prices thanks to everything a girl might want—like shoes, fabric, coffee, and even bacon—being rationed, she couldn’t afford to miss a single night of work.
A cadre of sequined, giggling dancers careened into her, enveloping her in a cloud of stale sweat and cheap perfume. Vi let them pass, too exhausted and drained by the heat to insist on the courtesy of letting her go first, which was due to her as one of the show’s stars. She huffed a bitter laugh at the thought. Star? Sure . . . Star of a two-bit vaudeville whose claim to fame was naked chorus girls. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Her younger, more idealistic self would’ve been incensed if she could see Violet now.
Chasing the thought away and wanting nothing more than to get back to the boardinghouse so she could soak her aching feet in Epsom salts, she pulled back the drape to her dressing room and then stopped in alarm.
A burly figure stood by her vanity, idly turning a fedora in his hands. He stared at the scarred surface as if the secret to immortality were scrawled there. Then he glanced up, and Vi’s skin goose pimpled at the lust in his dark eyes.
She swallowed hard, her near nakedness no longer feeling so benign. “Tony, long time no see. What are you doing here? I thought you were working in California these days, keeping those Hollywood director types in line.”
In her more naive days, before she
had started working at the Palace, she had thought the repeal of Prohibition some twenty years ago had rendered the Mob irrelevant. She had been wrong. Like a veritable cockroach, it had merely moved on to more hospitable surroundings, namely the entertainment business. And not just the more adult types of entertainment, such as striptease and prostitution. She had soon learned that there was hardly a movie palace or cinema left in America that didn’t answer to the Mob in some fashion or another. Hollywood itself had been forced to fall in line, often paying significant amounts for the “privilege” of having their films screened before a paying public, with an additional fee being collected by the Mob for each ticket bought.
With the war on and citizens desperate for an escape from reality, the venture had turned out far more profitable than bootlegging had ever been.
“I was, but I had some business to attend to here in town, so I thought I’d stop by and see my old friend Lily Lamour.” A slow smile spread across Tony Vecchione’s thick lips as the fedora stilled in his hands. “Look at you, Lil. An angel come down to earth.” His black gaze glittered dangerously as it slid over her body. She barely repressed a shudder. He was dressed flawlessly as always, the starch in his collar points heavy enough to withstand the terrible humidity. But in the incandescent glow of her dressing lights, his olive skin glistened with sweat from the heat. She also noted that, despite the late hour, his jaw lacked its usual dark shadow of beard stubble, which meant he had recently shaved, and likely for her. Nausea built in her stomach at the implication of that.
She forced herself to move forward. “Such pretty words, Tony, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time if you’re hoping for sex. I only have time for my career these days.”
“So Sal said.”
“Then why are you here?” It took all her acting chops to walk nonchalantly past the Mob hit man, but she managed to pull it off and reach her vanity before her knees gave way. She collapsed onto the small stool and turned toward the mirror.
He laughed. “Who said I was only lookin’ for sex?”
“That’s what you wanted the last time we chatted.” Her fingers trembled as she wiped off her stage makeup.
“Ah, Lily,” he said with another low laugh, using her stage name like everyone else in Chicago. She glanced at him in the mirror, not wanting to make eye contact but also afraid not to. He was the very definition of terrifying. “Is that why you invented that jealous boyfriend to keep me at arm’s length? And yes, I know he was made up. I checked around after I left.”
“It seemed the prudent thing to do.”
“It was also unnecessary, because you misunderstood my intent.”
He leaned down so his face was close to hers in the mirror, his ear brushing against her peroxide-blonde hair. His dark, predatory gaze met her wide green one in the silvered glass. “I had a more permanent arrangement in mind. One where a pretty doll like you gets a much better deal outta life than anything Sal can offer. Come with me tonight. Let me show you a good time. Listen to my proposal. I think you’ll find it worth your while.”
“I see.” She leaned away and pulled a facial tissue from the box on her vanity, all the while keeping him in her peripheral view, much as she would a copperhead snake. Despite his easy smile, his body practically vibrated with energy, as if his blood were already well up. Which it likely was, given that she was sitting basically naked in front of him; that didn’t bode well should she try to reject him.
She decided to try deflection first. “Should you even be here? I thought the reason you left Chicago was to get the Feds off your tail.”
He shrugged, his gaze dropping to the reflection of her admittedly bountiful breasts. “I got a loose end I need to clean up. You know, business. But not tonight. Tonight”—he exhaled an invisible stream of air down her neck, and she fought the urge to bolt—“I got other plans.”
He straightened abruptly and then ran a surprisingly gentle fingertip up her spine. Her body shivered, confused about whether to respond.
At first glance a gal might think, given Tony’s expensive pinstriped suit, his stylish silk tie and pocket handkerchief that added just the right dash of color, and the impossibly white shirt, that he was a real catch. He also smelled good, if one liked spicy aftershaves, and paid meticulous attention to the details of male grooming, right down to the slicked-back gloss of his Brylcreemed hair.
But Vi wasn’t swayed by any of that. She could never get past the reptilian coldness lurking in his nearly black eyes.
Nor could she get past what he did for a living. While usually not one to throw stones at other people’s choice of work, Vi did have a problem with Tony’s.
And yes, she was completely aware that as someone who took her clothes off for money, she was hardly the model of virtue. But killing people just because your boss told you to, people you had no personal beef with? That was flat-out wrong. At least in her book. Even if your boss was the head of the Outfit, Chicago’s branch of the Mob.
He lowered his head again and nuzzled her temple. “So what’s it gonna be, Miss Lily Lamour? My place or yours?”
For a moment she couldn’t even respond, she was so paralyzed by the sight of their faces together, pale and dark, bleached blonde stark against midnight black, her bright green eyes wide next to his fathomless black. It was like a pictorial representation of good and evil, except that neither one of them was on the right side of morality.
He licked the top edge of her ear. The awful, unwelcome feel of his tongue on her skin broke her paralysis. She jumped to her feet and then hurried to the garment rack by the door. “I don’t do permanent arrangements, either.”
He stalked her, his voice silky, soft . . . deadly. “Lily, are you rejecting me?”
Ice swept through her blood. “Not necessarily,” she said, placatingly. “But I’m of no use to you tonight. It’s—it’s the wrong time of the month, if you catch my meaning.” Her tongue almost tripped on the lie. She prayed he wouldn’t ask for proof.
He huffed in amusement. “Lily, you should know better than to think a little blood would repulse me.”
Swallowing a surge of panic, she tried a different tack. “I’m also so exhausted from the performance, I can hardly stay awake. Perhaps we could postpone until the next time you’re in town?”
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, the lethal edge in his voice chilling her. “You know patience isn’t my strong suit.”
“Yes, I mean, I know. But I want to be sure I’m in the proper state of mind to hear you out. You deserve a girl’s full attention.”
The muscle twitching in his jaw told her he wasn’t buying it.
She tried again. “How about tomorrow night after the show? I’ll take a nap in the afternoon so I’m not so tired, and perhaps it will be cooler . . . What do you say? We can have a couple of drinks, get to know one another a bit. If I’m to discuss creating a mutually satisfactory arrangement, I feel like I should know you better.”
She knew she was babbling but couldn’t make herself stop.
“A couple of drinks.” He gave her a long, considering look.
“Yes. You know, liquid courage and all that.”
Another heart-stopping moment passed in silence. Then he nodded slowly. “All right, if that’s what you want. But I’m not in the mood to be alone tonight, so we’re gonna have those drinks now.”
“I’m not exactly dressed,” Vi pointed out, hoping any delay would give her time to think of a way out of her predicament. “Give a girl fifteen minutes?”
His soulless gaze ran down her body, a dull flush of excitement darkening his cheeks. Vi repressed a shudder. “As much as I prefer you this way, I’ll allow you five minutes. But that’s it. As I said, I’m not a patient man.”
“Five minutes, perfect. And if you wouldn’t mind, I don’t want to hold our discussion in public; nor do I want to disturb my landlady so late at night. Perhaps we could go to your place? I’m fine with taking a taxi home afterward.”
Not tha
t his place was an oasis of safety, but at least it would offer them a little privacy. She didn’t care to become known as Tony’s moll. Her reputation was questionable enough.
Appreciation briefly warmed his obsidian eyes. “That’s what I like about you, Lily—all sensibility, yet with the morals of an alley cat.”
She twisted her lips into what she hoped was a smile. “Such sweet talk, Tony. So romantic! Now if you’ll excuse me, somebody gave me only five minutes, and you’re delaying me.”
Tony chuckled but got the hint and left.
The moment the curtain fell closed behind him, Vi ran back to her vanity and yanked open the bottom drawer. Frantically, she dug through the assorted G-strings and nipple patches until she found a small amber glass bottle. Thank heavens she hadn’t accidentally thrown it out. A gift from her landlady, who had also taught her how to make a decent Mickey Finn with it, the knockout drops had saved her from being raped more than once.
Some fellows just refused to believe she had no interest in selling her body on the side, especially given her line of work. They would accost her backstage, or follow her home, or shadow her around town. Rather than risk being injured by a rejected suitor, which could endanger her career, she would politely agree to a drink, preferably at a hotel or at their place, and then slip them a Mickey Finn at some point in the evening. The next time they met, she always thanked them for a lovely time and then regretfully mentioned she had a policy of no repeat business. It only created attachments that couldn’t go anywhere, as they could well imagine, yes?
Of course, she had turned tricks back at the beginning, when she had been broke and starving. A lot of girls did when they first started out. Food didn’t come cheap in Chicago. But once she had started moving up the ranks from chorus girl to solo stripper to headliner, she had also started earning enough dough to be choosy about her lovers. Very choosy. As in she slept only with fellows for whom cash inducements weren’t needed and whose careers didn’t morally repel her.
Tony failed in both categories.
She held the fragile bottle up to the light. Relief flooded her as she saw there was still a bit of liquid left inside. With any luck it would be enough, though Tony wasn’t exactly a small man.
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