Swan Song

by Tracey

  “You wouldn’t know it if I wasn’t.”

  He chuckles. “I’m getting a fair idea that you’re not.”

  I am. But you never let them know that.

  “And you’re still here.” I say, feigning amazement.

  “That’s because I am enjoying this conversation.”

  “Bully for you.” I mutter, taking a puff of my cigarette.

  He examines me for a long time, his face completely blank. Part of me starts to sweat inside, wondering if I’m pushing him too far. Gangsters are notorious for one very fatal flaw, a flaw that is fatal only to those who expose it; temper. They are quick to move insult to injury in the blink of an eye. Maybe I’ve gotten too comfortable with men like Tommy. I know my limits there. I know how smart mouthed I’m allowed to be but Tommy’s tolerance is not everyone’s tolerance. I should keep that in mind.

  “What’s your name, Adrian?” he asks quietly.

  “No dice.” I tease, snubbing out my cigarette. “You already have two of my names and now you want another? I don’t even have my first from you.”

  He grins, his dangerous eyes dancing with amusement. “Drew.”

  “Drew.” I repeat, trying it out. “But it’s not your only one, is it?”

  He chuckles. “No.”

  “Why do you think it is, Drew,” I ask, leaning forward on the table conspiratorially. “That we have so many names?”

  He leans forward as well, coming farther into the light. I can see him better now and he’s rougher than I thought. There’s stubble on his face, a small scar on his cheek to match the one on his neck and fine lines around his eyes. He’s aged beyond his years and I wonder what exactly it is Drew does.

  “Because we’re playing the game,” he tells me softly. “And you should never play the game with anything that’s real.”

  “That’s very deep.” I whisper. “Where’d you get that? Shakespeare? Mark Twain?”

  “Felix the Cat.”

  I laugh before I can stop myself.

  He smiles. “Be careful. That right there, that was real.”

  “How do you know? Maybe it was whiskey.”

  “Maybe. But I doubt it.”

  I sit back in my chair, still grinning like a cat.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  Uh oh.

  Tommy has arrived. He’s spotted my guest sitting with his arms on the table, his eyes on me, a smile on his lips. I don’t know what Tommy is thinking, but I know it isn’t good.

  “Tommy, this is Drew. Drew, Tommy. He was keeping me company.” I say calmly.

  The guys on guard are looking nervously between themselves, Tommy and I. I smile at them reassuringly. I’m not going to sell them out, not if I can help it.

  “You know this guy?” Tommy demands.

  He’s not looking at me. He’s staring daggers at Drew who sits back in his seat, appraising Tommy.

  “We just met.” he tells him.

  “Did she invite you to make yourself at home like this?” he asks, now eyeing the whiskey glass sitting halfway between us on the table.

  “No, but we’ve become fast friends. Haven’t we, Adrian?”

  “I don’t know.” I reply flippantly. “I think you’re something of a pill.”

  He grins at me, the amusement in his eyes again.

  “I think it’s time you hit the bricks.” Tommy tells him darkly.

  “You might want to ask Bottles about that first.” Drew tells him, his voice dipping. Becoming dangerous. This is a side of him I could sense but not see, not yet. But now here it is. The mobster.

  “You got business with Ralph?”

  “And Al.”

  Tommy’s jaw clenches briefly. “Your name is Drew?”

  “As in Andrew.”

  “As in Birdie.” Tommy says, his voice resigned.

  “That’s right.”

  I’ve seen enough of these interactions to catch on to what just happened. Drew, simply by name and reputation, has pulled rank on Tommy.

  “Birdie?” I ask Drew, my eyebrows raised.

  He grins at me. “You don’t approve?”

  “No, I do. It’s… sweet.”

  “Let me tell you something, doll.” he says, snuffing his cigarette. “Never trust a fella with a ‘sweet’ name. The story behind it is almost always ugly.”

  “So you’re telling me not to trust you?”

  “No farther than you could throw me.”

  “We’ve been waitin’ on you.” Tommy interrupts curtly.

  Drew shakes his head, turning his attention to him. “I told them on the phone that I wouldn’t meet in an office. I don’t do private engagements.”

  Tommy crosses his arms, annoyed. “You want me to drag ‘em out here to meet with you?”

  “Either that or I can finish this drink and go home.” He glances at me sideways. “The trip won’t have been a complete waste.”

  I ignore his eyes. Tommy does not.

  “Scram, Adrian.”

  I glare at him as I stand but I don’t complain. I’m used to being excused when business gets real. Usually it’s with a little more finesse than this, but I’m in no mood to fight and it looks like Tommy is.

  Drew stands as well, showing a surprising amount of manners. I nod to him briefly, avoiding his eyes and pushing past Tommy who watches my every step.

  “We’ll talk about this later.” he mutters.

  “Nothin’ to talk about.”

  “Adrian.” Drew calls after me. I turn to look at him one last time, noting the way the shadows hold him. Hug him. Like he was born of them. “What was it? Was it real or was it whiskey?”

  I want to lie to him. I want to tell him that my laugh was whiskey all the way. That it was a lie, a fake, an act. But for reasons I don’t quite understand, I don’t.

  I shake my head at him.

  “I can’t stand whiskey.”

  When I finally walk away, my hips swinging to the rhythm of my heels snapping on the hard floor, I feel two hot, heavy sets of eyes watching my every move.

  I hoof it home after that. I should have taken a cab or had one of the boys call around a car, but I need air. It’s dangerous for me to walk around unguarded like this with the war going on, but I live here in Cicero not far from the club and right now if there’s a dangerous spot to be, it’s back at the club with Al. With Tommy. Near Drew.

  This is why I need air. Why I need a breather from that joint. From all the men and their guns and their pissing contests. Luckily I live with three other girls. Two from the club who waitress and work in the chorus and another who works in a department store in Chicago. Aside from us, she has no connections to the mafia. Some days I envy her.

  When I unlock the door to our tiny apartment she’s there sleeping on the couch. It’s 1 a.m. and she has to be at the store early in the morning so I try to come in quietly, cursing the creaking door as it closes. Her schedule is the complete opposite of ours which is bad for all of us getting sleep but good because at least one of us is awake during the day when stores and banks are open. We make a lot more dough than she does but she runs all of our errands so no one says boo.

  “Hey, Adrian.” she mumbles sleepily, her eyes still closed. Her blond curls are a crazy matted mess around her head.

  “Lucy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” I whisper.

  “It’s okay. How was your night?”

  I silently slide my heels off, parking them by the door. “It was good.”

  “Anything exciting happen?”

  “Ralph and Al were there. I didn’t see them but Tommy was going nuts.”

  Lucy yawns. “Tommy is always nuts.”

  I chuckle quietly. “Yeah.”

  “Alice and Rosaline are still working?”

  “Probably late, yeah. I’ll try to keep them quiet when they come in.”

  “Thanks.” she mutters, already rolling over to go back to sleep
. “I made muffins. They’re on the table.”

  I can smell them then. Pumpkin, spice and everything nice.

  “Thanks, Luce. You’re the bee’s.”

  “I know.”

  After I silently devour two muffins I strip down to nothing and throw on a man’s nightshirt. It’s loose, comfortable and the opposite of everything I wear at the club. I spend a good ten minutes pulling out hairpins to let my long, thick tresses fall heavy and loose. It feels divine. This is my favorite part of my night, the part when the club comes off and all that’s left is me. I love being on stage. I love singing in front of a crowd. I love playing the part in front of all of those people. I even love my song and dance with Tommy. But every now and then it feels good to just be me for a minute. To be the girl with no makeup stealing a third muffin in her bare feet in a dark kitchen. It’s moments like these when I feel almost sixteen again. Almost like the kid from Nebraska with simple cotton dresses and ribbons in her hair. As much I hated her, there are days when I almost miss her.

  Almost

  .

  Chapter Three

  “Play that one again, will you, Eddie?” Rosaline asks, taking a sip of her soup. “I love that one.”

  Eddie, the bassist in the house orchestra, nods before kicking off into the song again. I don’t know the name of it. It probably doesn’t have one. It’s most likely something he’s created on the fly because he’s that sort of talented. His song resonates cleanly through the quiet, closed club as we all sit around eating our dinner of soup and sandwiches listening intently. We’ll have to start warming up soon to get ready for the club to open, but for now I’m loving this. Sitting around laughing, chatting and relaxing with the only family I have left. The only one that matters anymore.

  “So,” Rosaline says slyly, leaning in close. “Who was he?”

  I take a bite of my sandwich, frowning. “He who?”

  “You know who. The fella at your table the other night. The scary one.”

  I glance around, making sure no one else is listening.

  “You saw him?”

  She nods. “I was sneaking over a scotch when I saw him sitting with you. I figured he was important, what with the boys guarding you both but then I saw Tommy lose it.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Not with me.”

  “So, who was he?” she insists, poking my arm.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. His name is Drew. That’s all I got from him.”

  It’s a lie. She probably knows it’s a lie which is good because I don’t want her to press me on this. I’m not gonna tell her he was there to see the brothers. I’m not going to tell her he’s probably a torpedo, a hired gun, a hitman on loan from New York. These are all things it’s dangerous to even think about, to be smart enough to figure and they’re deadly to talk about. If I go flapping my gums about what I see to everyone who will listen, even Tommy can’t protect me from the end I’ll have coming.

  I haven’t made it this far in this business with this crowd without knowing when to go deaf, dumb and blind.

  “Well, he was spooky.” Rosaline says, giving a theatrical shiver.

  “He wasn’t so bad.” I protest, taking a sip of the soda we’re sharing. “He was actually kind of funny.”

  “Your sense of humor is warped.”

  “You didn’t even speak to him.”

  “No, but I saw his eyes when he came in.”

  “What was wrong with his eyes?”

  Rosaline frowns, turning uncharacteristically serious. “I don’t know really. They were just… empty.”

  When the song comes to a close Eddie asks what to play next. I want to tell him to put the bass down and eat something, anything, but I can’t. It’d humiliate him. Even if I gave him half my sandwich it’d be a huge thing. He was given dinner here at the club just like the rest of us, but instead of eating it he’s taking it home tonight to his wife and five kids. It’s noble but he’s starving and it’s killing me.

  A door bangs shut nearby, startling everyone in the room. It echoes through the space like a gunshot. Suddenly Tommy bursts into the room, heading straight for me.

  “Adrian, you’re outta here! Go, now.”

  “What?” I ask, shocked. “Why?”

  “I said now!”

  Tommy mounts the stage in one quick jump. He grabs onto my arm and pulls me toward the steps, my shoes skidding over the smooth surface.

  “Take it easy, Tommy. Geez.”

  “I don’t have time to take it easy.” he growls. “We’ve got a problem. Move.”

  I don’t protest. I know this drill. This is exactly how things went down when the Hawthorne Hotel shooting happened and we all went on lockdown. I grab my coat off the back of a chair as we hurry past, shocked and scared faces staring up at me from the tables nearby. I glance over my shoulder to see Rosaline watching with a stunned expressed from where we sat together on the stage.

  “Where am I going?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  We burst out into the brisk October evening air just as the sun is setting. The lights of the Cotton Club are blinking on, preparing for the coming night of debauchery, drinking and gambling. A night I will apparently not be participating in.

  Tommy tries to toss me into the back of a black car waiting at the curb but I throw his hand off my arm.

  “What happened?” I demand, looking him square in the eyes.

  He glances around, finds the sidewalk empty but still steps closer. “You know who Hymie Weiss is?”

  “Yeah. He’s been the leader of the Northside Gang ever since O’Banion died.”

  “Not anymore. He’s dead.”

  I gasp, shocked. “No.”

  “It happened just an hour ago. Gunned down in the street.”

  “Was it—“

  I stop myself before I can finish but Tommy is already shaking his head at me.

  “Don’t ask that shit.”

  “I know. I didn’t.” I take a breath as I pull my coat tighter. The coming night feels like it’s pressing in around us. Cold and dark. “They’re gonna think it was the Outfit, though, aren’t they?”

  “Who else would it be? Which is why you’re gone tonight.” he says, taking hold of my arm again.

  “They wouldn’t retaliate tonight.” I say in disbelief, but I go willingly into the car.

  Tommy leans his head inside near mine. “The Irish? They would. With them revenge is swift. It takes precedence over everything else.”

  “What about everyone else in the club?”

  “They’re expendable to me.”

  “What about you? Where are you gonna go?”

  He smirks. “Nowhere, doll. I’m here all night. We didn’t do this so what have we got to hide from, right? You, however, have a terrible cold. It’s been bugging you all week. Time you took a night off to recover.”

  I don’t respond because I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to tell him I’ll worry about him but truth is I know I will. What would my world be like without him? Easier? Harder? Better? Worse? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. He’s a part of me, a part of my Chicago as much as the club, the girls, the band and the lights. I need them. All of them.

  I lean forward, moving my face closer to his until our breath is touching. Until my nose grazes his and his eyes go wide with surprise. I hover for a moment, waiting. Debating. This is somewhere we’ve never been. Somewhere I had never planned on going with him. But still I do it. I close the gap. I kiss him.

  It’s a mistake and I know it when I do it but I still make it. I take his face in my hands, pulling him closer until he’s leaning hard inside the car, his chest almost touching mine. He keeps his hands on the cold steel of the doorframe but his hot breath rushes across my lips as he breaks from the kiss then dives in again for more. It should come as no surprise that Tommy is an excellent kisser. That his soft, wet lips gliding over mine sends a tingle do
wn my spine that will haunt me for days. That his teeth grazing my lower lip just for an instant is enough to make me wonder if he’ll bite me. Enough to make me want him to. Then his tongue erases the sensation as it traces my mouth, demanding entrance and I pull away, dropping my hands from his face.

  “Take care of yourself, Tommy.” I whisper, sitting back against the cold leather seat.

  He grins with satisfaction, his breathing even and solid. “You too, Adrian.”

  He closes my door, bangs twice on the roof and stands outside watching as the car pulls away. I wish he’d go inside where it’s safer. I wish he’d close the club tonight. Mostly, though, I wish he’d forget that kiss ever happened.

  Chapter Four

  Three weeks later and no one else has died. I’m sure someone somewhere in the world died, but no one in my immediate vicinity. No one I know of fell under violent and/or mysterious circumstances. Considering the death toll since this gang war started, going this long without a hit feels like a record.

  It also feels like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  The death of Hymie Weiss cannot go unanswered. They know it, the Outfit knows it. Hell, half of Chicago and all of Cicero knows it. The only question is when.

  Halloween comes around and for once I’m not working. I’ll be at the club anyway, dressed to the nines in an all-black get up complete with black diamonds on loan to Ralph from some jeweler in town. I’m not to hit the stage, not officially, but I am definitely to be seen. My costume was chosen by Tommy, of course. I’m to be a witch, but a witch with a plunging neckline and a slit cut so high in her dress it’s nearly indecent just to walk in the thing.

  Other bigger acts are booked for the night. A couple of up and coming jazz artists I am not familiar with and a young vaudeville actor and comedian named Milton Berle. He’s only about 18 or so, just a few years younger than me, but already a huge name making the circuit across the country. To say I’m a little green with envy is the understatement of the year.

  The girls all show up as well, including Lucy which is simply crazy. She hates the club and everything to do with it. Hates the gangsters, hates the gambling, hates the prostitutes. The only part she does like is the free hooch we slip her and the chance to see a good show without paying the cover she can’t afford. Most of us who work here in the Cotton Club can’t afford the cover and every member of the band, because they’re black, has to enter through the back door by the alley. The world is full of injustices, so much so that I almost can’t be bothered worrying about them anymore.