by Beth Ciotta
He heard the scrape of gravel as James snuffed out his cigarette. “Let’s go.”
“Sit in the back with me,” Izzy cooed in his ear.
“Sit in the front with James,” Grace said, then shoved him inside.
He didn’t dare hope she was jealous.
Chapter Five
GRACE TENSED AS James turned off Rhode Island Avenue onto Franklin. One block ahead was The Gentle Lamb Funeral Parlor. Though the establishment had raised eyebrows with its ceremonious farewells to local film star Betty Berg’s beloved fluffy white Bichon Frise and to boardwalk bruiser Killer the Kangaroo, it was a legitimate business that attracted little other attention. That and its out-of-the-way location made it the perfect front for Mick Mahoney’s basement speakeasy, the number one blind tiger in Atlantic City. Good food, superior entertainment, and top-notch hooch. Mick catered to the wild, rich, and famous. He was a smart businessman.
He also seemed to be going through an alarming personal crisis. Grace didn’t know exactly what had started it, but she knew he wasn’t thinking straight.
Izzy slid closer to her and whispered, “How are you and Mick getting along?”
“Fine,” Grace lied. She refused to discuss their reunion six days past. Refused even to think about it. Her oldest friend, Mick Mahoney, had lost his mind. End of story.
“It was only a kiss, Grace.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You can’t hide from him forever.”
“Who’s hiding? I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Only because you don’t want to be alone at the farmhouse.”
“Get to the point.”
“You could do worse than Mick.”
“I don’t need a man, Izzy. If I did, I wouldn’t need you to play matchmaker.”
“I’m not playing matchmaker.”
Grace eyed her friend.
“I just see two old friends who care for each other, who know each other inside out,” Izzy said innocently.
Grace turned away to look out the window. “Uh-huh.”
There was a pause. “Joystick Jackson said he’d be there tonight,” Izzy pointed out.
Grace had been looking forward to introducing Joystick to Ace—until Izzy had let it slip why the pilot was hiring her. Until she realized Izzy was pulling for Mick, trying to get them together. Never a dull moment. Isn’t that what she’d wanted?
“What are you two whispering about?” James asked.
“Nothing,” they said in unison.
“Women,” he said to their blindfolded passenger, who’d remained silent during their short drive to the inlet.
Grace wondered about Izzy’s mysterious houseguest. For instance, was his amnesia real, or was he playing some kind of game? Izzy liked to play games but never cared about the rules. Nor did she consider the motives of the other players. Everyone knew of her whirlwind weddings and how, when things went sour, her daddy paid her husbands to disappear.
Grace glared at the back of Ace’s handsome head, trying to burrow into his brain. Who are you? What are you capable of? He looked as charming, confident, and dangerous in his borrowed suit as he had in denim and leather. It bothered her that they hadn’t found a wallet on him—no identification, no money, no watch. Nothing but the peculiar clothes on his back. James had asked the man if he’d been hit over the head. Ace’s answer had been a predictable “I don’t remember.”
People didn’t just fall out of the sky.
Grace grimaced. What if he wasn’t out to swindle Izzy but to bring her—or one of her friends—down? Grace’s suspicions warned her that Ace wasn’t being honest, and he certainly possessed the cocky arrogance of a Fed. Even though that didn’t make much sense. If a prohibition agent wanted to find a speakeasy, all he’d have to do was follow Izzy. He wouldn’t have to go through this elaborate scheme.
The more she thought about it, the better she felt about tagging along to the speak. Someone had to watch this fellow. And going out was better than sitting at home, missing Pop Pop and pacing the house, cursing Tuck for ruining her. Better than wondering if her friends made it home without driving into a tree, extinguishing themselves and her new flying partner. Izzy and Jimmy never knew when to quit drinking.
Of course, this outing meant having to face Mick.
“It was only a kiss, Grace.” If Izzy had seen the way Mick had tried to ram his tongue down her throat last week, she’d be singing a different tune. She’d be shocked.
Or maybe not. “You could do worse than Mick.” Grace narrowed suspicious eyes on her friend. They could have gone to Purgatory tonight. Purgatory had premium hooch, same as The Gentle Lamb. Purgatory, however, did not have Mick.
“Ace is going to make a dashing wing-walker,” Izzy whispered to her. “Are you offering him the job before or after you show him off to Joystick?”
She shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear.”
“Maybe you should wait until he has a few more cocktails. Mick’s monkey rum will make a person say yes to anything.”
Grace snorted. “You should know.”
Izzy leaned forward and tapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “Park behind Elroy’s car. I don’t want him leaving until we talk.” Then she slumped back on the seat.
Grace reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Izzy waved her off as she drew a cigarette from the car’s built-in smoking case.
—to hurt your feelings. Grace sighed. She herself tended to handle unpleasantness like a poisonous snake—with a shovel to the head. Izzy, on the other hand, generally sidestepped and retreated. She hid from reality behind Chinese fans and cocktails by the pool. A luxury only someone as rich as a Van Buren could afford.
“Get a wiggle on, girls.” James hopped from the driver’s side, then opened the back door and handed out Izzy.
Grace helped herself, then opened the front passenger door for Ace. “Let’s go.”
He turned toward her voice, pointing to the blindfold. “Can I take this off now?”
“No.” Amazing he hadn’t ripped it off already, Grace thought. She would have. She hoped she hadn’t misjudged his daredevil mystique. A wing-walker needed spine. Again the thought crossed her mind that he could be a Federal agent out to get Mick. Was he just playing along until they got inside? She grabbed his elbow. “You do everything people tell you?”
He grinned. “If it involves two women and a blindfold, sweetheart, I can be persuaded.”
A little thrill rushed through her. Not unlike the fluttery excitement in her stomach as she pointed her Jenny’s nose down into a death dive. Except this felt more dangerous. For a girl who didn’t wear a parachute, she didn’t like the way her body seemed suddenly out of her control.
She looked away and breathed in the night air. “Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you have to act like one,” Pop Pop had always said. “Damn right,” she whispered.
Izzy latched onto Ace. “I have this lovely fabric from India. Perfect for a blindfold. It’s shot with gold thread. Very opaque.”
Grace rolled her eyes as they strode toward The Gentle Lamb.
Izzy looked over her shoulder at her. “Make no mistake, Grace, my man is no Percy pants. He’s just loopy. We had a few after-dinner cocktails.”
Grace sneaked a look at Ace as they neared the front entrance. A couple of Izzy’s cocktails had most people stumbling drunk. Ace wasn’t even swaying. As Izzy had suggested, she’d hoped to loosen his tongue with Mick’s giggle juice. Just her luck. A man who could hold his liquor.
When they reached the whitewashed door, Grace stuck out a palm to James. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
He rolled his eyes but handed over the car keys without a word. She’d established this rule long ago. If they dr
ank, she drove. She tucked the keys into her pocket, then turned to Ace and untied the blindfold. “Just act normal,” she said as much to herself as to him. She looped the scarf around her neck. “Whatever that is.”
Izzy knocked on the door in a sequence of staccato raps.
A tiny peep door slid open. A black shadow blocked any light from inside. “May I help you?”
“We’re here for the Krenshaw viewing,” Izzy said.
“Memorial card?”
“For Pete’s sake, Waldo, it’s me.”
The man lowered his voice to a scratchy whisper. “Sorry, Miss Van Buren. With all the raids, password’s not enough. Need to see your membership card.”
“Sheesh.” Izzy dug into her elegant handbag, shuffled through several different colored guest cards, then showed one to Waldo.
James flashed his, then Grace pulled hers from her pocket.
Waldo raised a hand. “No need, Miss Grace.”
Miss Grace?
The door swung open. Izzy and James waltzed in. Grace prodded Ace—a little more roughly than necessary—inside.
Waldo poked a fat finger into his chest. “Card?”
“He’s a friend of Jonas,” Izzy said.
“Jonas is a member,” Waldo said. “He isn’t.”
James whipped out a C-note and stuffed it into Waldo’s mourning jacket pocket. “Now he is.”
“Where’s Mick?” Grace asked.
The somber-dressed thug jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Office.”
She’d need time to question Ace without a public confrontation with Mick. Which meant a private confrontation with Mick. He’d have plenty to say about the way she’d been avoiding him this week—especially since she’d disappeared for the last year—and he wouldn’t give a rat’s tail who heard.
She glanced at Izzy and James, knowing they’d understand. “Meet you downstairs.”
She saluted the supposed amnesiac with the curious brown eyes. “Later, Ace.”
RUFUS STARED AT Grace’s retreating back. Now where was she going? He’d tolerated that ridiculous blindfold because he’d liked the way her husky voice ordered him around. He liked the way she’d had to nearly press her chest against his to tie the soft-as-skin cashmere scarf. If Izzy had come at him with a blindfold, he might have balked. But Grace’s eyes had held such serious intent, he’d trusted her. Besides, he didn’t think she’d come so close to him without good reason. She didn’t like him much, but after riding in the car breathing in the scent from her scarf, he sure as hell liked her. He’d like to get her alone.
Of course, getting her alone would satisfy more than the hunger he experienced with every new woman. If Bookman was right, if he’d been sent here to help Izzy the ghost, who better to nose around than the ditzy flapper’s best friend? He knew from J.B.’s journals that those two and “the thug” had spent every summer together until Izzy eloped with Buddy Valentine. If anyone had insight into Isadora Van Buren’s transgressions, past or present, Rufus suspected it would be Grace.
Instead, she’d left him empty-handed. She’d clunked off to join Mick, whoever the hell that was, leaving him with the Van Burens and Waldo, who looked more gangster than mortician.
James sighed in obvious boredom. “I’m dying here.”
Waldo’s bloodless lips curled in amusement. “Then by all means, follow me.”
“Finally,” Izzy said, dragging Rufus along.
James fell into step with Waldo.
The pseudo-mortician led them through a posh sitting area with red tapestry-covered furniture, lush flower arrangements, soft lighting, and organ music. Rufus felt his mind recede, his vision haze with the hushed, clouded memories of his father’s funeral. His mother holding his father’s hand for hours after the wake, just like all those nights in the hospital. Silent. Strained. His little sister holding Rufus’s hand, wanting to go home. Old memories. Uncomfortable memories. Though who wouldn’t feel uncomfortable in a place built for death and grief?
Shake it off, man. Shake it off. It’s a front. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out they’d come to an illegal drinking establishment, aka a speakeasy. He was living a scene right out of Billy Wilder’s screwball flick, Some Like It Hot—password, phony funeral director, and all. If reality imitated film, Waldo would direct them through a secret panel that led to the real action.
On cue, Waldo held back a maroon velvet curtain. James walked ahead, and Izzy followed, high heels silent in the plush carpeting. This was it. Rufus grinned. He was actually looking forward to the experience. Jazz music. Dancing girls. Hundred-proof liquor and cigarette smoke as thick as cheese. As Bookman had said, right up his alley. He followed Izzy through the curtain, then stopped in his tracks.
Caskets. For dead people. Two rows of them, their lids propped open like baby grand pianos.
He jumped as James placed a hand on his shoulder.
“People are dying to get in here,” James said.
Ha-ha. Rufus failed to see the humor in death. Then he thought back on Izzy’s earlier words. “My man deserves the best.” He couldn’t have misunderstood. “I thought we were coming here to drink.”
Izzy rubbed up against him. “I knew you had a nose for parties.”
“First things first.” James walked to a bronze casket—the most expensive, of course, with gold rails and white plush interior, the Caddy of caskets—and climbed in. He settled his long body in the puffed white satin, folded his hands across his chest, then closed his eyes.
Izzy shifted her weight to one foot, annoyed. “Every time.”
A second later James reached up from the grave and shut the lid.
Rufus shivered. Five years from now, that lid would close for good.
Izzy wrapped herself around him. “Cold?”
“Just a sense of something.” He shifted so she’d have to unhook her leg from his.
She frowned. “You had a memory?”
“A sensation.” He looked down into dark, doe eyes. His stomach tightened. He might not like Isadora Van Buren, but he sure as hell didn’t want her to die. He wished he could warn her but knew he couldn’t. He squeezed her hand before removing it from his ass.
She beamed.
James opened the casket. “Let’s go.”
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
James tugged the creases from his suit and adjusted his boutonnière. “Puts life into perspective.”
Despite his somber thoughts, a small smile tugged at Rufus’s lips. “Didn’t you just graduate from college?”
“Exactly. Now I must go to work. I have to remind myself it’s better than death.”
Rufus followed the trio down a dark flight of stairs, shaking his head. The kid had made it through college without working a real job, and now he was dreading honest employment? He’d been twelve years old when he hired on as a delivery boy at a corner market. It meant missing after-school sports and fooling around with friends, but he’d never regretted the job. Helping his mother support him and his sister had made him feel like a million bucks.
It struck him that, although James and Izzy seemed friendly enough, they didn’t have a clue how the world worked. Unlike Jonas, who apparently thrived on the daily grind and challenge of running a successful department store chain, Izzy and Jimmy lived to play. They were, as far as Rufus could tell and from what he’d learned from J.B.’s journals, self-absorbed, hedonistic hellions. Still, he couldn’t help but feel there was more to these Van Burens than met the eye. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe he just wanted to get home.
As they hit the bottom step, he crinkled his nose at a peculiar smell. Trying not to think about its source, he breathed through his mouth as they passed closed doors. Strains of faint music floated up the corridor. They stopped at the door in front of them, whe
re Waldo knocked out another sequence of raps.
“How big is this place?” Rufus asked.
James turned to him. “Pooch Mathers, he owns this joint. His ancestors hid slaves here during the War Between the States. Part of the Underground Railroad. Built a giant room for them to live in until they could head farther north.”
The Civil War. Abraham Lincoln. Ulysses Grant. Only sixty years ago. Holy . . .
His mind jumped track. If Pooch Mathers owned this place then, “Who’s Mick?”
“Mick Mahoney,” Izzy said. “An old friend. The brains behind this operation.”
An old friend? As in “the thug”?
Another peep door opened, then slammed shut.
“Leave Mick out of this,” James told Izzy.
“You and Grace are such worry warts.” She tightened her grip on Rufus and beamed up at him. “You’re not a snitch, are ya, dollface?”
The door whipped open. Izzy rushed inside, dragging him with her. James disappeared into the bawdy crowd. Waldo slammed the door shut behind them, and Rufus forgot about Izzy’s “snitch” remark. Forgot about Mick and Grace. It was impossible to focus on anything but the blatant decadence of a thriving 1920s speakeasy. It was exactly as he’d imagined. Only better. Louder. Smokier. Bawdier.
A jazz quintet—sporting tuxedos, spats, and slicked-back hair—cranked out lively acoustic music from a small corner stage. Though he couldn’t remember the song title, he recognized the composer as Duke Ellington. On an oblong platform, six long-legged girls wearing bobbed hair, cropped tops, and short-shorts were tap-dancing their hearts out. Two of them, twins, winked at him.
He smiled, then looked away. Though he loved twins, that pair couldn’t be more than seventeen.
He continued to scope out the smoky room as Izzy dragged him toward a table, front and center and marked Reserved. Men and women, most of them decked out in tuxedos and ankle-length gowns, crowded around similar tables talking, laughing, smoking—all of them sipping from dainty, gold-rimmed coffee cups.
The gorilla who’d shown them in from the second peep door kissed Izzy smack on her cheek before disappearing. “Later, sugar.”
