She plucked at her damp blouse and took a deep breath. “All right. Since I seem to be low on options, might as well tell me the rest.”
“The good news? You’ll be performing with the USO, onstage, as part of a legitimate Broadway-style musical—all on the up-and-up, with no nudity. And it’s scheduled to go on tour shortly, out of New York.”
She laughed without humor. “And your friend couldn’t find someone on his own to take the part? That makes no sense. I would think there’d be a thousand girls willing to sell their soul for a traveling Broadway show.”
“Maybe, but there’s another part to the job. And this is where the rub lies: there is a very important person—actually the daughter of this very important person—also in the show. You would be expected to keep an eye on her without letting her know.”
“So, I’m to babysit a Mob princess on the sly.” Her head started to throb again.
“No, no. The daughter is no baby. She’s eighteen. And apparently very headstrong. Willing to disregard the express wishes of her father, to the point of putting herself in mortal danger. This, of course, he cannot allow, but finds himself helpless to stop her.”
Vi frowned. “I’m not wild about that ‘mortal danger’ part, and I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. I’m a dancer, not a bodyguard.”
“Which is exactly why you would be perfect. Having had no experience with traveling overseas, or even being away from home, the daughter will need a confidante, a friend to guide her. Someone to keep her away from handsome GIs and out of minefields.”
“While I can probably do the former, assuming the girl will listen, war zones are outside of my area of expertise.”
“Which is why you’d be only responsible for keeping her with the others and away from amorous soldiers.”
“For how long?” She couldn’t believe she was actually considering such a ludicrous assignment.
“Three months.”
“Not a chance.” She held up her hand to stop Sal’s protest. “Even if I could deceive the USO into thinking I was some kind of Snow White, I can’t be away from Jimmy that long.”
“Actually, I think the correct verb is won’t, since you’re not actually caring for him. But consider this: If you go to jail, how long will that keep you away from your son?”
She glanced back at the playground, at Jimmy, her headache turning into a migraine. “What if I dye my hair and change my name again?”
Sal sighed. “Be reasonable, Lily.”
“And why can’t a powerful Mob boss rein in his own daughter?”
A wry smile twisted his lips. “She might or might not have uncovered the existence of an unfortunate relationship that would land her father in very deep water should his wife find out about it.”
“She’s blackmailing her own father?” Vi could almost admire the girl for that.
“Don’t dissemble, Lily. Are you going to help my associate help you, or are you going to wait around here to be arrested?”
Good questions, both. As much as she hated the thought of leaving Jimmy, she might at least have the chance of seeing him grow up if she left town, something sticking around didn’t leave as an option. She had no illusions that being female would keep her safe if the police brought her up on murder charges.
“When would I have to leave?” she managed despite the closing of her throat.
“I suggest immediately. There are still a few cops not in the family’s pocket who are likely out looking for you right now.”
Vi sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her ears buzzed faintly, warning her of an imminent faint. She bent forward and hung her head between her knees, all the while focusing on the flow of air in and out of her lungs.
Damn, damn, damn.
Tony’s death had put her in a real bind. Even if Jimmy didn’t know her from Eve, he was the center of her world. All those nights working the audience, strutting half-naked across the stage, skipping multiple meals to save up money—she had done it with the vain hope that she might yet be able to give him something of importance, something beyond just giving birth to him. But if she was arrested for murder, perhaps even convicted, she would have to stay away from him forever. Because who would want a murderer for a mother?
“Lily, we’re running out of time here. Are you in or out?”
She lifted her head, and a tear slid down her cheek. “Sal, promise me you’ll keep an eye on Jimmy for me, please?”
Sal’s dark eyes were solemn. “Upon my life. And I’ll send updates to my friend so you’ll know how he’s doing.”
She swallowed and got shakily to her feet. “All right. Give me thirty minutes to go home and pack—”
Sal grabbed her arm, his grip almost painful. “You can’t go home. You do that and you’ll be picked up the second you step through the door. Think, Lily! With no one else to pin the murder on, the cops aren’t going to just let you go once they have you.”
“You can’t expect me to show up in New York without even a toothbrush,” she said in disbelief.
“You don’t have a choice.” He let go of her arm and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to her. “This is the address of the theater where the production is rehearsing, as well as the name of the director and the name of your charge. I’ll make sure everything is arranged for you by the time you arrive.”
She shook her head. “This is madness!”
His hand paused, the paper still between his fingers. “You got a better idea?”
The truth was she didn’t. She took the paper from him, her heart in her stomach. “Fine. But I’ll need this week’s pay to afford the ticket.”
“Of course.” He shifted and pulled a wallet from his trouser pocket. After opening it, he selected several bills and folded them in half before handing them to her. “There’s a bus that leaves for Indianapolis in an hour. From there you can catch one to New York.”
“All right.” She took the wad of bills from him. To her surprise, he started to take them back.
“Lily . . . listen to me. Even if the family manages to smooth things over with the police, you’re still going to have to let this unhealthy obsession you have with your son go. You know that, right?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from protesting and nodded.
He released his hold. “Then go, ahuva. My little one. All will be well.”
Chapter 4
Exhausted and filthy after three days of nonstop travel from Chicago to New York, Vi sneaked into the darkened theater auditorium, praying no one would notice. As luck would have it, rehearsal was in full swing, so every eye was on the stage. Relieved, she blinked to adjust to the low light. Onstage, beneath a gorgeous scrolled, gold leaf proscenium, two male actors and a female one paused as light cues were called out and adjusted.
Silently, wanting to get the lay of the land before announcing her presence, she chose a seat so as to watch. The chair mechanism stuck at first and then released. She winced as the metal hinges scraped open, but no one looked back.
Sinking onto the soft velvet cushion, she almost groaned with pleasure. She had forgotten how tiring travel could be. It had been more than five years since she had completed that final leg of her journey and arrived at the Chicago Greyhound station, nervous as heck and yet so full of hope. She’d had it all planned out in her fifteen-year-old head: She’d get a job as an actress or work as a costumer for one of the Windy City’s many theaters; then she and her baby would find a room with a friendly widow, just like in the movies. She would work and bring home her paycheck while the kindly widow babysat and prepared home-cooked meals.
It had all seemed so simple and straightforward, until reality had hit her like a bucket of ice water. Turned out no one wanted to hire an underage runaway. And the kindly widow she had hoped to meet in church? The woman never materialized. Soon the little money she had brought with her, which had constituted every penny stored in her ceramic bunny bank, had r
un out.
Finding herself in dire straits, she had then stumbled upon her most useful ability to date—becoming someone else. She became the counter clerk who’d had her purse stolen and needed a quarter for the ride home or the newlywed who had gotten lost downtown and needed a dime to call her husband at work. Or an experienced stripper who needed a new gig because her boyfriend manager had knocked her up and then fired her.
Sal had readily seen through that lie but had at least given her points for trying. On the other hand, the ticket seller at the bus station three days ago had fallen for her latest act, hook, line, and sinker. At first the troublesome fellow had tried to tell her everything was sold out until next month, on account of America’s fighting men getting first priority. Then they had gotten to talking about the heat and how his live-in mother-in-law was getting on his nerves. On a pure whim, Vi created a cantankerous mother-in-law of her own, one that she was so desperate to escape she was going home to New York City to see her own family for a while, and oh—did he want to park his mother-in-law in her apartment while she was away?
Her “husband” wouldn’t need it, since he was in the army—something she relayed with a tragic catch in her voice—and it wouldn’t do for it to go to waste. In the pause while his gaze narrowed in possibilities, she had pulled out the key to her “second floor” apartment that “occasionally catches a breeze off the lake,” and offered to sublet it to him for a couple of months. She had even offered to write a quick letter to her landlady, who was herself a crotchety old woman, so the two women would get along famously . . .
And just like that, a seat had appeared on the next bus out of town. And not one just to Indianapolis, like Sal had recommended, but one that went all the way to Philadelphia. Of course, the long stretch of unbroken travel also meant next to no sleep, since she hadn’t dared let her guard down. Not when the Chicago police might have already noted her absence and called in the FBI for help.
Securing a second ticket to New York had been just as touch and go, requiring another sob story, convincingly delivered, to an elderly gentleman with the last seat. She hadn’t liked lying to such a nice old man, but Angelina Maggio’s father was counting on her to get to New York City as soon as possible, so her motives hadn’t been entirely selfish. And, to be honest, the elderly fellow had seemed rather eager to give her the ticket. Of course, the attractive older lady making eyes at him from across the waiting area may have had something to do with that.
In any case, all that was behind her. She was here with nothing to do for the moment but soak in the heady smells and sounds of a legitimate production underway: the tang of varnish and paint and freshly sawed wood; the familiar mustiness of upholstered seats; the hollow, unamplified voices echoing in the empty auditorium; the pounding of a hammer backstage; and the occasional shout of a crew member. Her heart thumped unevenly under an unexpected barrage of emotions.
Her happiest memories had always involved being onstage, part of a dance performance or theatrical production, sweating under the hot blaze of footlights. Ever since her first dance recital at the age of six, she had known there was no place she wanted to be except on a stage. Her whole existence had soon centered on reaching that glorious day when she would escape dreary old Iowa and ascend to the dizzying heights of Broadway performer. How she had worked, and trained, and practiced to make that dream a reality . . .
Only to have it all come crashing down because of a stupid girlhood crush. It made Vi sick to remember how her younger self had misread Robert’s interest in her. Robert, one of her older sister’s many suitors, who had been so kind and attentive whenever she and Fern had run across him at church—who had taken Violet aside after Fern had given him the brush and had told her she was the one he actually loved, never Fern. Her singing had entranced him, made him blind to any other girl’s charms. He’d thought her beautiful and as graceful as a swan.
Looking back, she could hardly believe she had been taken in by such uninspired prose. But she had been, and soon they were meeting on the sly every chance they could get because her parents hadn’t considered fifteen old enough to date. She had fancied herself Juliet to Robert’s Romeo, one-half of a star-crossed pair that would defy the odds and become a love match immortal. Never mind that he had always managed to slip in a question about what Fern was doing or who she was seeing. Nor had it bothered her that, when they still had run across him at church, he would all but stare at Fern.
Well, okay, that was a lie. It had bothered her. A lot. But when she had accused him of liking her sister better, he had said he was showing concern for Fern because she was part of Vi’s family, which would someday also be his.
Such naivete. It defied explanation now.
Yet, despite all her missteps and self-sabotage, here she was . . . in New York, in a Broadway theater, and about to join a new production. It was a miracle, and one she didn’t wholly deserve. But too much of her old dreams remained for her to throw the chance away. Her only regret was that it had required her to leave Chicago, and Jimmy.
With the lighting situation resolved, the two male actors—an older man with silver hair and a younger, dark-haired man—began reading from their scripts again. Near as she could tell by their gestures, they were arguing about the blonde lying on the couch with her arm over her eyes, as if asleep. Or drunk, given the snippets of dialogue she caught.
Whichever it was didn’t matter. What did was finding the man whose name was written on her paper right above Angelina Maggio’s. Tuning the actors out, she scanned the front row of seats. One of those shadowy figures had to be the director she sought. At least she hoped so. It would do her no good to find Miss Maggio if she only ended up being left behind, waving bon voyage from the dock, because she had failed to first secure her spot in the play.
Vi chewed on her lip nervously. Despite Sal’s assurance that the director would welcome her with open arms, she had enough stage experience to see this was no small-time production. The director had to be nervous about adding her sight unseen.
So how to reassure him, thus putting herself on firmer footing with the show?
Not by interrupting the rehearsal—that was for sure.
Nor by stinking, figuratively as well as literally, she thought as she gave her blouse a sniff. Bad first impressions were the very devil to overcome, and she owed it to Sal to at least smell one rung above a hobo.
Quietly she eased to her feet. Her tired muscles protested, but there was no time to lose if she wanted to avoid meeting the director looking—and smelling—like a pigsty. Still, she couldn’t resist watching the actors a few more seconds. The men arguing while the blonde stirred made for some terrific staging. It also meant the scene was rapidly coming to a close. She needed to beat feet. Later, if all went well, she would have plenty of chances to watch.
Not fifteen minutes later she was back in the theater lobby, smelling and looking much more professional, even though the underarms of her blouse were still damp from being rinsed. Drawing a deep breath, she nervously smoothed her newly pinned hair, checking for stray ends. The recent dye job, hastily undertaken in Philly to further alter her appearance, had left her hair slicker and harder to style, if also closer to her natural deep sable color.
She would miss the attention that came with being blonde, of course, but moon-kissed locks were Lily Lamour’s trademark. And then there was that small tug of pleasure at seeing the old Vi reemerge in the mirror. It was like meeting an old friend after a long break.
She hurried back into the auditorium, and her heart nearly stopped when she realized the house lights were up. Frantically she ran her gaze over the small groups of people gathered in the aisles, chatting, the rehearsal clearly finished for the day. A stoop-shouldered, balding man was talking to the blonde actress, and the way the woman listened to him caught Vi’s attention.
One, that the actress was scowling meant she was likely receiving bad news. Two, that she also maintained steady eye contact with the fellow, despite
her displeasure, suggested he was Gerald Stuart, the man Vi sought. Any actor or actress worth his or her salt would give the director his or her full attention when getting stage directions if they wanted to keep a part. Mistakes might be forgiven the first time, but not the second, and there was always another person waiting in the wings to grab your spot.
“Can I help you?”
Pressing a hand to her chest, Vi whirled to face two young women, one with wavy, light-brown hair and wide gray eyes, and the other a brunette whose green eyes were narrowed with suspicion. Mentally, Vi kicked herself for letting someone sneak up on her like that, let alone two people. If she had still been in Chicago, she would be in jail by now.
The gray-eyed girl studied her with a worried look. “Did I startle you? I’m sorry. It’s just that the theater is closed to visitors during rehearsal.”
“Oh, I’m not a visitor. I’m here to talk to Mr. Stuart,” Vi said, wondering if this was the rebellious Angelina Maggio. She considered asking but then decided against it. No need to tip anyone off that she was there to do anything but dance. She continued in a more confident tone, “He’s expecting me.”
The gray-eyed girl’s expression relaxed into a friendly smile. “In that case, I’ll walk you over.”
“Gertie,” the brunette hissed. “Are you nuts? What if she’s another snoop?”
Gertie’s eyes widened. “Oh gosh! You aren’t, are you?”
“No,” Vi said firmly, wanting to nip any concerns about her presence in the bud. While she now knew the gray-eyed girl wasn’t Angelina Maggio, there was still the brunette to consider. “But I don’t want to delay you two. Just point him out, and I’ll take it from here.”
“Are you sure?” Worry clouded Gertie’s pretty face. “It might help if someone goes with you; he’s been a perfect grouch all day.”
“A state not that uncommon in directors,” Vi said with a sympathetic laugh. “Thanks for the warning, though.”
The brunette grabbed Vi’s arm. “Not so fast. If you’re here to rat another one of us out, you can leave right now. The whole troupe is already steamed about losing Janet, including Mr. Stuart.”
The Long Path Home Page 4
