Speak Easy, Speak Love

by McKelle George

  “That explains a little. Though not how you ended up here in the first place.” She raised an eyebrow, a suggestion.

  He did not rise to the bait, letting his eyes flutter innocuously at her.

  “I’ll cut you a deal, Mr. Scott.”

  “I bet.”

  “If you tell me how you first came to Hey Nonny Nonny, I won’t ask you a single other question the rest of the day.”

  Benedick’s lips twitched. “Well. You know just the way to a fella’s heart. All right, since the flame of curiosity burns so bright. It was my sixteenth birthday weekend. One of my school friends had heard about this great bash out in Flower Hill. We paid a wallop to get these pins and the passcode—significantly overpaid, as I learned later.”

  He braced his hands on his desk, crossed one ankle over the other, and leaned back. “I can’t actually remember much of the night itself, since in my celebration I drank myself nearly into the grave, but I do remember thinking it was terrific. Friendly, I guess. Hey Nonny Nonny wasn’t for anybody; it just was. Anyway, that was a Friday, and when I woke up Saturday morning, I was in one of the rooms with no clue how I’d got there, completely abandoned by my friends, and so sick I genuinely believed I’d done myself in.”

  “So sick you thought, Gee, why don’t I stay forever?”

  “I’m getting to that, and you are already violating your end of the bargain. Anna told me I was too young to be drinking that much. She lectured me.” She’d mothered him, though it had taken him awhile to realize that was what was going on. “She told me I could come back if I promised to lay off the cocktails. Back then Hey Nonny Nonny was open nearly every weekend, slowing down only in the winter. They had another bash that night, and I stayed.”

  “Was Hero around?”

  “Of course. Anna didn’t let her drink much either, so Hero took it upon herself to take me under her wing, told me she knew a waiter who’d hook us up. The waiter was Prince.”

  “Did you fall in love with her?”

  Benedick laughed, surprised. “No. Not at all.”

  “Then why did you come back?”

  “Well, because . . . I liked it.”

  “You came every weekend?”

  “Not every weekend, but a lot of them. I stayed for the summer, too.”

  “Your parents didn’t mind?”

  He shrugged. “Most of the boys I went to school with spent summers in Long Island or Connecticut, usually by the beach; it’s not that uncommon, if your family doesn’t own a house out here, to get invited to stay at someone else’s.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “That’s not how I spent my summers, I can tell you. Hey Nonny Nonny isn’t really like a bar then. Not exactly.”

  “Hey Nonny Nonny was like the party for the people who couldn’t stand the other Long Island society parties.” Starving artists and their muses, the outcast rich and swank babies like Claude Blaine descending south in search of local flavor. He finished, “People were interesting and kind, not to mention the music. Anna used to dance on the tables.”

  Beatrice softened. Her face, with its dimples and freckles, was another animal entirely when it wasn’t set to blazes. “I think you described it fine,” she said. “And I see what you mean, why you’d stay.”

  “Why, Miss Clark, I didn’t know you had it in you to see what I mean.”

  Her mouth thinned. He was beginning to categorize her expressions. This one was her whatever-you’ve-said-is-idiotic look. “Don’t polish your gold medal just yet. I— Did you hear that?” She turned to his window and crawled up onto his sofa so she could peer through the glass.

  He hadn’t heard anything, but he was not entirely surprised to look for himself and see, out at the end of the lane, the outline of a car gleaming in the charcoal light of pre-dawn.

  Beatrice’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Look, Ben! He’s getting out! What’s he doing?”

  “Who?” Benedick followed the point of her nose, now pressed directly to the glass, and saw a slight figure rooting around near the cellar doors. Doors that led, perhaps not coincidentally, into the speakeasy. On the basis of the dark hair, Benedick might have said it was John, but the jacket seemed ragged, the cap slightly askew. John Morello was neat as a glass of scotch.

  “We have to go investigate,” Beatrice said.

  “What? No, we do not have to do anything of the sort.”

  “Of course we do. What if it’s a burglar?”

  “And what if it’s not? Furthermore, what’s this we? I was promised a vacation from your curiosity.”

  “That’s true,” she murmured, leaning back from the window. “And I am a girl of my word. You stay here.”

  Before he could ask if she meant to accost the poor intruder in her nightgown, she tightened the sash around her waist and strode out.

  “Wait, you impossible maniac.” Benedick hurried after her. “Are you incapable of minding your own business? We can wake up your uncle if you’re so concerned.”

  “By that time whoever it is might be gone!”

  “Perish the thought.”

  She ignored him. He nearly had to jog to keep up with her as she sailed out the back door, bare feet and all, and rounded the side of the house. The young man was right where they’d left him and straightened at their arrival. It was not John, though he had the same coloring. His fingers brushed the side of his jacket back; Benedick saw the distinct edge of a holstered gun and grabbed Beatrice’s elbow.

  He jerked her behind him, a position she opted to stay in for approximately half a second. She wiggled around to his side, but he maintained his hold on her arm.

  “Good morning,” she said pertly. She tried to pinch Benedick’s hand, but he merely shifted his grip; it felt a bit like holding a touchy explosive.

  The young man let his jacket fall back over the gun, hiding it. He slid off his cap, holding it to his chest. “Buongiorno, signorina.” He grinned crookedly. “I very much like your dress.”

  “Thank you,” said Beatrice, after an uncertain pause, glancing down as if to remember what in fact she was wearing.

  “Are you looking for something?” asked Benedick. This time, when Beatrice pinched, he let his hand fall back to his side.

  “Just making sure I know where to find the place. Maybe you know Pedro?” His accent was decidedly Italian, rugged and confident.

  “Pedro?” Beatrice muttered.

  “Prince,” Benedick told her quietly. Louder, he added, “He’s here actually. If you want us to get him?”

  “No need.” The same grin took up the young man’s face. “We’re half cousins, but he doesn’t know the faces of his own blood, you know.”

  “We could pass along your name at least,” Beatrice said.

  “Borachio Morello.” He bent and retrieved a bottle, nestled against the side of the cellar entrance. Tied around the neck was a piece of wood bearing the Genovese symbol. “You can tell him I got his message.” He winked at her, flipped his cap back on, and, whistling, strolled toward the car waiting at the end of the lane.

  “Satisfied?” Benedick asked as the car pulled away. He had the real urge to sit down in the weeds and take a nap.

  “Not by half. Do you think it was only the bottle he wanted?”

  “That’s the way into the speakeasy.”

  “You’re pulling my leg!”

  “Nothing could induce me to touch any part of your leg,” he said. “I’d guess our friend was perfectly aware there was a speakeasy here.”

  “Hmm. Well, we’d better tell Prince at any rate.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  She turned to face him fully, just as the sun began to streak the sky, tiny smug smile in place, which sent the dimples marching to center stage. “Admit it.”

  “Never,” he said automatically. “Admit what?”

  “You’re glad we came out. Admit it feels good to have acted, to have gained an answer even if we received more questions in exchange.”

  “I admit nothing
except that you are a madwoman with a severe lack of respect for proper clothing choices.” He straightened his shirt, though in truth he was not much better off than she was. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to enjoy my questionless day.”

  Benedick was enjoying their bargain.

  Today was the sort of day even a respectably polite person would have questions. For someone like Beatrice, it was a veritable parade of new things to learn, but Benedick made a point of sabotaging her attempts to field any inquiries to Prince or Hero instead.

  When they gathered in the speakeasy to set up, he watched her find a barstool as far as possible from him. He waited until Hero climbed on top of her own stool, which frankly didn’t put her too much taller than half the people in the room, and then sat directly beside Beatrice. Her eyes slid to acknowledge him as if he were a nasty breed of barnacle she was having trouble eradicating; he smiled back.

  “Go away,” she whispered.

  “Never.”

  Hero cleared her throat. “I don’t have to remind you tonight’s a big night,” she said; she wore a long skirt and sturdy Mary Janes, both of which she would shed by tonight.

  Benedick had always liked Hey Nonny Nonny when it was empty—the promise of it. Each round table had a fresh tablecloth folded on top. The bar was crammed with foraged supplies: Prince’s territory. The only piece of the party always in place was the chandelier hanging from the high basement ceiling.

  “We had a rocky winter season,” Hero continued. “But the November to March crowd always runs a bit thinner than summer’s. There’s no reason we can’t recover.”

  Anna and Leo had been known to roll up their sleeves and pitch in, but it used to be that Anna also paid the busboys, waiters, and barkeeps to come early and set up. Now the Stahrs could only afford the hours of the actual party; that meant all prep work fell to their diminished five-person crew. Six if you counted Leo, and some days you could, some days you couldn’t.

  “Unfortunately,” Hero said, “we’re not set up for full weekends yet, but we can do every Saturday, and we have three big weeks ahead of us. Tonight is the Masquerade, our opening blowout.” This was clearly for Beatrice’s benefit. “Next Saturday is Decoration Day weekend, and then it’s my eighteenth birthday. That kind of momentum will take us all the way through the summer, to Labor Day, so long as we don’t trip over our own feet.

  “Now where did I . . .” Hero turned. On her other side, Prince handed her a folded paper. “Thanks, sugar. Let’s see . . . Prince will organize the bar, like usual, with Ben’s help. Papa’s going to pick up the extra hands. Francis will secure our outside entrance and make sure raid procedures are still in shape. Maggie of course is in charge of entertainment. I’ll be handling the decorations; Beatrice, you’ll be with me. Everything I ordered should be around this joint somewhere, so just ask. Everyone square?”

  “As a city block, captain.” Benedick saluted.

  “Good,” said Hero. “Maestro?”

  Prince passed around the customary shot glasses. Beatrice eyed hers with more than a little trepidation. Benedick decided to give her this one. “Tradition,” he told her.

  Prince filled everyone’s glass with half an inch of good whiskey, one of the last bottles they had.

  “Maggie, if you don’t mind,” said Hero.

  Maggie held her glass, waited a moment, then sang:

  “Sing no more ditties, sing no more

  Of dumps so dull and heavy;

  The fraud of men was ever so,

  Since summer first was leavy.

  Then sigh not so,

  But let them go,

  And be you blithe and bonny,

  Converting all your sounds of woe

  Into . . .”

  The last line was for everyone, and every time, no matter what, it was shouted as loud as everyone could go.

  “Hey nonny, nonny!”

  Maggie tucked down her whiskey. She twirled her empty glass and whooped a little. “Let’s get to work, boys and girls!”

  Benedick set the last of their stock on the counter, two clear jugs of Sage’s moonshine. “Technically he owes us a third.” Benedick traced the number 2 with his finger, hearing Beatrice’s voice: And don’t think I’ll forget.

  Prince looked up from his list. He popped the cork on one and sniffed. “Good God.”

  “It’s pretty awful,” Benedick said.

  “That just means we can stretch it further,” Prince said after a moment. “We got a huge case of half-rotted strawberries. If I beat those up, and mix them with ice and mint, we’ll only have to add a little of this stuff to prove it’s wet.”

  “All right, well, it shouldn’t be much trouble to swing by his boat this afternoon if it’ll be useful. Think we have enough?”

  “I’ll make a half-ass sherry out of the wine bricks from Francis. Plus the old whiskey that’s twice watered down. It was pure when we got it, so it’ll hold.”

  “How much did we save from the coast?” Benedick asked it casually. He’d been waiting all morning for a chance to bring it up—or rather for Prince to admit on his own that he’d left a perfectly good bottle outside the cellar entrance, but Prince only shrugged.

  “Four bottles total, but I’m going to use them to thicken the supply we have.”

  Maggie and the band were running through songs; the music cast a swingin’ blanket over their conversation. Hero and Beatrice untangled garlands and baubles to hang around the stage.

  Benedick leaned in. “What about the one you left for Borachio Morello?”

  Prince’s eyes snapped to him. “What did you say?”

  “He was here before dawn. And I saw John at the train station yesterday afternoon.”

  Fight flew into Prince. When Benedick only arched his brows, Prince slumped a second later and muttered, “That was fast.”

  “Tell me,” Benedick said.

  Prince glanced toward Hero. Not the way he usually would, as if he were deciding if he should tell Benedick their secret, but more along the lines of I don’t want her to know.

  “Okay. Look.” Prince rooted around the cabinets under the bar until he found a well-used map of Long Island. He spread it out on the floor between them, so Benedick had to crouch to see. Prince tapped his finger on Nassau County’s southern beaches. “The Genovese family operates several rum-running drop-off points here.”

  “Sure. We’ve always known that.”

  “I did some digging and turns out the whole county is considered Genovese territory. No other Italian family is allowed to do bootlegging business from the coast to the Sound. But I run tracks all over this area, and the only place you need to watch your step is on the coast. Why is that?”

  Benedick leaned his cheek into his fist. He had no idea, truly. With all the rest of Hey Nonny Nonny’s competition, it didn’t seem as though they brushed up against Italians much at all. He’d assumed it was because they didn’t care. “Because Nassau County is just a bunch of farms and wealthy estates?”

  “That’s part of it,” Prince said. “But you know as well as I do that most of the parties out here are wet. Not to mention the clubhouses and gentlemen’s lodges and joints like ours and Minsky’s Ragland.”

  “So what?”

  “Most of those places have a bootleg supplier, but none of them pull from the Genovese shipments.”

  “Maybe they don’t like Italians. Leo never wanted to work with them either.”

  “Leo didn’t care that they were Italian. He cared that people who double-crossed them ended up shot between the eyes.”

  “Funny. It’s not like him to worry about such trivial matters.”

  Prince looked up, his forearms resting on his knees. “Guess who’s the captain over the Nassau area?”

  Benedick had an idea.

  “John,” Prince said. “John is the reason they haven’t done business here the past few years. Almost exactly”—his tone turned bitter—“from the time he found out I was working here.”

>   “Even you can’t blame John for the turn Hey Nonny Nonny’s taken.”

  “No,” Prince admitted. “But after Leo started to . . . you know. I tried looking for other options.”

  Benedick grimaced. When Anna got sick, they’d shut down for a bit, of course, and everybody understood, but then Leo drank himself out of his best trade routes: botched meetings, people swindling him by wagging scotch under his nose. His broken heart sank them as swiftly as Anna’s death.

  “It took me four months to even find out John was the one in charge,” Prince said. “No one would talk to me because they were too scared of him.”

  “Why would John care about Hey Nonny Nonny?”

  “He doesn’t. It’s me he hates.” At Benedick’s skeptical expression, Prince scowled. “Don’t give me that look. When we were kids, our mother despised him, and she adored me. It doesn’t matter; the point is, eventually I got in contact with his cousin. Our cousin. He wants John’s spot, and apparently not everyone is happy that he keeps a lid on all activity in this area. If I can find a way to turn an immediate profit, Borachio will partner with me. That’s why—why I took those crates, why I left their whiskey for him. He wanted me to prove to him that I could.”

  Benedick nodded, considering all this in silence. He understood why Prince hadn’t told Hero yet. Hey Nonny Nonny had to purchase booze to stay wet, but they were, as Leo often said, “honest lawbreakers.” They never sold a drop except at their bar, and out of those profits not a cent went to organized crime, politicians, or law enforcement for protection.

  What Prince was talking about, that was big money, and not in a good way. In a send-you-to-jail-or-grave kind of way. Was their humble speakeasy worth that kind of risk? When he looked at Prince, the answer was yes. This place was his heart, his home, his future. Benedick’s, too.

  “Don’t tell Hero,” said Prince. “I need more time.”

  Several hours later the decorations were set and the band had run through all their songs. Tommy played one-handed at the piano while Maggie leaned over to talk to him; the cellist laid down her instrument and stretched. Benedick, Prince, Hero, and Beatrice sat at one of the tables closest to the stage. Hey Nonny Nonny looked almost ready to go, the counters and floors scrubbed, white tablecloths in place, ashtrays and lilies, just in bloom, as centerpieces. Benedick cracked the bottom of a new pack of cigarettes against the table’s edge. He offered one to Prince.