The club was long and narrow and mostly nameless, but it was already crowded, and a trio of musicians struggled to be heard over the shouted conversations. A gang of young men from one of the theaters had taken over four of the front tables, their hairlines still touched with makeup and mascara still on their lashes; toward the center of the room, carefully posed beneath the lights, an angular evening-gowned person with platinum finger waves was holding court, waving a cigarette holder as though conducting. She wiggled her fingers as he passed, and Jerry tipped his hat, but kept on toward the bar.
There were more seats open there, and he found a place, nodding to the bartender. "Manhattan, please."
"Sure thing, Doc." The stocky man slid the drink across the polished wood. "Thirty-five cents."
Jerry laid three quarters on the bar. "Keep 'em coming."
"You got it."
Jerry took a careful sip, and turned on his stool to survey the room. God, he'd missed this, and even if all he did was have a drink or two in congenial company, it would be enough…. He surveyed the crowd, considering a wiry man in a plain brown suit, then a fair-haired boy in an argyle sweater under a jacket. A chorus boy, almost certainly. It was the chorus boy's friend who returned his look, however, a little older than the blond, darker and more muscular in build. Jerry let his gaze linger a little longer, and the other man detached himself from his group, came to lean on the bar at Jerry's side.
"Nice night," he said, as though he was just waiting for the bartender.
Jerry lifted his glass. "And getting nicer."
The young man — he had to be an actor, too; there was still a hint of eyeliner smudging his eyes, giving him a faintly exotic look — smiled back. "Come here often?"
"When I'm in town," Jerry answered. It was a risk, it was always a risk, but he'd been starving since Gil died, and now that he could… "Buy you a drink?"
"Why, thank you." The young man's smile widened, showing very good teeth. "I'm Steven."
"Jerry." They shook hands, and the bartender slid another drink across the scarred wood. Jerry pushed the coins in his direction, and the man vanished with a nod.
"The Dubarry or the Varieties?" Steven asked, nodding to the tuxedo visible beneath Jerry's coat. "They're the big openings."
"Neither, sadly. A very dull party."
"I hope the night's improving."
"Very much so," Jerry answered. He'd missed this more than he'd realized, the chance to let his hair down almost as much as the sex, though he'd missed that more than he'd been willing to admit. How in hell he was going to stand going back to Colorado Springs — but that was something to worry about in the morning, not now. He lit Steven's cigarette, Steven's fingers hot on his hand, steadying the lighter against an intangible breeze.
"I'm guessing you're in lodgings, too," Steven said.
"I'm afraid so."
"Pity." Steven exhaled a lungful of smoke as though coming to a decision. "Still — there's out back."
Jerry nodded. "I'm only fussy about the company."
"Flatterer." Steven tossed off the last of his drink and slid from his stool. "Come on."
Jerry collected his hat and stood, resting his weight on his cane, and saw Steven's eyes flicker. But then he was smiling again, and Jerry followed him through the maze of tables. They ducked out the side door that opened into a hallway lit by a naked bulb, and Steven grabbed his sleeve, pulling him close. Jerry returned the caress, but said, "Here?"
Steven caught his breath, but broke away. "No."
He pushed open a second door, tugged Jerry through after him into the relative dark of a passageway between the two buildings. Jerry braced his back against the wall, bricks solid beneath the layers of coat and jacket, and caught Steven by the lapels, drawing him in for a thorough kiss. Steven responded with gratifying eagerness, hands busy on Jerry's buttons, then sank to his knees. Jerry gasped, closing his eyes. It wasn't Gil, it would never be Gil, but it was better than nothing, better than anything he'd had in years. He let his head fall back, and gave himself over to sensation.
Chapter Three
November 24, 1932
Colorado Springs
Lewis was surprised to see lights on in the kitchen at six am on Thanksgiving morning. Nobody else in the household was an early riser on the best days, and on a holiday he didn't expect anyone else to be stirring before nine, including Alma. Even more surprising, it was Stasi in the kitchen, her hair pinned up and a big baggy shirt on over her black dress, the coffee already made in the coffee pot and perking on a back burner while she ground something in the coffee grinder. Lewis pushed the door open and went in. "Good morning."
She looked up. "Hi, Lewis." She turned the grinder over, shaking out the white powder into a big mixing bowl.
Lewis went to get a coffee cup out of the cabinet. He wouldn't have bothered to make it just for himself, but if there was some he might as well. He glanced back at the mixing bowl, already full of about three times as much powder as would fit in the coffee grinder. "Almonds?" he said.
Stasi looked pleased, lifting up a big sack of them and refilling the grinder. "Almonds," she said. "For the cake. It needs almond flour and there isn't any to buy anywhere, so I'm grinding it myself just like my father always did."
"My mami did too," Lewis said, pouring a cup of coffee. "She said it was better anyway. For Pastelitos de Boda."
"Wedding cookies," Stasi said.
"Yeah." Lewis leaned back against the edge of the stove. "You speak Spanish?"
"Menu Spanish," Stasi said, grinding away. "I lived in Tijuana for a while."
"Rough town," Lewis said.
Stasi snorted. "Tell me about it. You ever been to Tijuana?"
Lewis nodded. "Oh yeah. I'm from San Diego, so sure. Lots of times. Though Mami wouldn't let me go down there when I was a kid. She said it was no place for a decent boy with all the gambling and horseracing and whores. It just got worse with Prohibition." He took a drink and then put the cup down. "I did one job as a hired pilot right after the war, bringing in booze for a bootlegger. Got shot at taking off and landing, and I said enough of that! No way I'm going to get shot at when I'm unarmed just to haul in somebody's load of whiskey from Mexico when I wasn't even getting a cut! Not without shooting back."
"Yes, well." Stasi didn't look up. "There's a lot more than booze coming in, darling. I finally got out of Tijuana by paying a guy to bring me along with his load. Otherwise I suppose I'd be buried there now."
That was risky business, risky for the guy and whoever owned the plane. "How much did you pay him?"
Her eyes never left the almonds. "I don't recall, darling."
"Oh." It occurred to him what kind of payment it might take, and a flush began to climb the back of his neck. He opened the icebox hurriedly, looking for the turkey. "So you don't have any papers?"
"Of course not," Stasi said. Her voice was perfectly even, so maybe he was just imagining worse things than the truth. "I'm completely and utterly illegal." She dumped another cup of almond flour in the mixing bowl and stood up. "Get me the milk while you're in there, darling."
Lewis passed her the glass bottle from yesterday -- no milk delivery this morning, since it was Thanksgiving and even the milkman got Thanksgiving off. He manhandled the turkey out and onto the other end of the table, all twenty-eight pounds of it. They were going to need all of it, after Alma's impulsive invitation last night. Rayburn and his co-pilot were back in town to retrieve their plane, Thanksgiving being a holiday for pilots as well as milkmen, and Al had invited them to dinner. But they would manage, something else to be thankful for. "What are you making anyway?"
"An almond torte," Stasi said with satisfaction. "Six thin layers of almond cake with light chocolate frosting between each one and vanilla cream on top."
"Golly," Lewis said. He cut the trussing on the turkey with his pocketknife. "That sounds complicated."
"It's more impressive looking than complicated," she said, stirring the milk in
gently. "Now, a Dobos torte is complicated. It's the caramel sheets for the top that are tricky. Vanilla cream is simple."
Lewis looked up from the turkey. "You really can bake."
"It's my one respectable skill." She glanced over at Lewis arranging the turkey in the biggest roasting pan. "And where did you learn to cook?"
"I was the baby," Lewis said. "And it's a good thing I did learn, because Alma can't boil water and Mitch can just about make breakfast on a good day." He tied the drumsticks neatly with twine and got out the earthenware jug of olive oil. "This is just the way my mami did it. She always brushed the skin of fowl with olive oil because that would give it the beautiful brown color and keep it moist inside. And two lemons and a fresh chile for the cavity, but I don't have any chiles so just the lemons today."
Stasi watched him with interest as he stuffed the turkey. "Are your parents alive?"
Lewis shook his head, but the memory was more fond than painful. "No. My father died when I was three. My mother passed on a few years ago. She was a wonderful woman, God rest her soul. My two older sisters are living, though, both in San Diego. I have eight nieces and nephews." He looped the kitchen twine to close the cavity. "My family's been in San Diego forever, since a soldier named Segura married a conversa in 1780. It's all there in the mission church -- her baptism, their marriage, Christenings for thirteen children, their deaths. We think she was a Kumeyaay Indian, but of course there aren't good records of that or of her original name. She was baptized Maria Consuela." Lewis shrugged. "A lot of mestizos in Alta California. But that was a hundred and fifty years ago, so who knows?"
Stasi was looking at him with utter fascination. "I never heard any of that when I was in San Diego."
Lewis shrugged again. "People think we all got here yesterday. But my family's been American a lot longer than Alma's. Her father came from Ireland fifty years ago." And who knows where Stasi had come from. Probably not Russia. That her father baked was the most he'd ever heard her say that he actually believed. He carefully didn't look at her as he dabbed olive oil over the skin of the turkey. "Do you have family?"
"I don't know." She got up, going to pour herself another cup of coffee, her back to him. "I don't know if they're still alive or not. But if they are…. If they are, they probably don't want to hear from me. I haven't exactly led an exemplary life."
"Still," Lewis said, looking for the right words. "You're their daughter."
Her back was to him, straight backed in front of the window over the sink, Mitch's big old work shirt over her dress to keep it clean. "The last thing my father ever said to me was that if I left I was no longer his daughter. I don't expect he's changed his mind. Whether he's alive or dead."
"That's rough," Lewis said.
"My father was a righteous man, and God gave me to him for a trial," she said. "But he's probably dead, and I'm not. And I certainly prefer it that way."
Lewis nodded even though her back was to him. At least his mother had been proud of him. She'd been so proud when he'd won the DSC in France, though not nearly as happy as when he'd come home -- her boy, an officer and a gentleman and a hero. Her memory would always be warm to him. He had nothing to regret. And Stasi -- well, she really didn't have anyone, did she? He was a lucky man, with a wife and friends and a good job that he loved, and if God didn't see fit to give them a baby, nobody got it all. He and Alma were both forty-two. It was probably just too late. But they had each other and all the rest of this strange family, and so there was room at the table for anyone who wanted to sit down.
"I'm glad you're not dead," Lewis said.
She turned around quizzically.
"Who'd make the almond torte if you were?"
Stasi grinned. "There is that."
"And I could use some help with the rest of the dinner too," Lewis said. "You heard Rayburn's in town, right? Came out to see if he can salvage his plane? So since he and his mechanic are stuck here over the holiday, Alma asked them to Thanksgiving dinner. So that's two more people than I'd expected. Can you make mashed potatoes?"
"Can I make mashed potatoes, he asks!" she implored of the heavens, or at least of the ceiling. "I can make mashed potatoes you would grovel and beg for!"
"Ok," Lewis said. "You're on. If anyone grovels and begs for your mashed potatoes, I'll give you a dollar."
"Deal," Stasi said, holding out her hand.
Lewis shook it. "Deal," he said.
Jerry finished shaving and ran his hand over his chin, savoring an unexpected feeling of well-being. He'd managed to sleep in, drowsing under the quilted spread even after the sun came pouring in the windows, then read the papers over the carafe of coffee delivered by a bustling Club waiter in lieu of the usual breakfast, and now it was time to meet Iskinder for the Club's elaborate Thanksgiving dinner. He still felt a little guilty for making someone else work on the holiday, and for not being back in Colorado Springs, but certainly there was no time to do the latter. No, he'd go back for Christmas — he'd know then whether the job was going to be extended or if there were any other contracts opening up in the spring. It was always easier to tell Alma his plans than to give her a chance to object. Which wasn't entirely fair. Al hardly begrudged him the chance to get back to his true vocation.
He knotted his tie — crimson silk, a nod to the College even if it wasn't a Club tie — and glanced at his reflection in the room's one long mirror. He looked entirely respectable in his best blue suit, the color dark enough not to fight his sallow complexion, the vivid tie his one flourish for the day. He checked his pockets — keys, watch, cigarettes and lighter, then collected his cane, and started for the lobby.
It was crowded, as he'd expected: this was one of the days when members brought not just their wives but their entire families. An elderly woman in deep gray had been ensconced in one of the large armchairs by the fireplace, two middle-aged men hovering, looking so much like her that they had to be her sons. A larger group was gathered across from them, two older couples, a young man and woman, and a handful of older children — newlyweds, perhaps, or maybe newly engaged, the families feeling each other out for the first time. A smart young couple hovered by the dining room door, the woman in a miniature trilby that would have looked good on Alma's blonde waves. Several small girls in velvet dresses darted between their chatting elders, and two boys in knicker suits were eying each other warily by the magazine rack. In the background, the club staff bustled between the smoking room and the main dining room, and the air was thick with the scent of cigarettes and roasting turkey.
He fished his watch from his pocket, confirming that he was a few minutes early, but he couldn't say he minded very much. He liked the noise and the bustle, the competing conversations, the elegant clothes and the luxuries, large and small. He stepped out of the way of a waiter with a tray of what the Club claimed unblushingly was merely sparkling cider, and dodged a very determined-looking small boy in a sailor suit who carried a wooden airplane like a club. His mother darted after him, retrieved him with a quick apology, and a man in a gray glen plaid suit turned to check on the disturbance.
Jerry froze. Surely that wasn't possible — it couldn't be Piers Harradine, not now. Surely he was still in Boston, except that, no, the last Class Report had said he'd taken a position with the family firm in New York. And for all that he was twenty years older, that was unmistakably Piers. The other man was staring at him with the same wild-eyed look of a deer caught in headlights, and any minute now someone would notice. Jerry forced a smile. "Piers."
"Jerry." The other man caught the shoulder of a tow-headed girl in a burgundy velvet coat. "Alida, help your mother wrangle your brother, please."
He should turn away, Jerry knew, they should both turn and walk away and pretend they'd never seen each other again, but the tall woman in the impeccable eau de nil shantung had corralled the toddler and was looking curiously at them. She had to be Piers' wife, Jerry thought, and Piers managed a tight smile.
"I didn't expect t
o see you here."
"I'm working at the Met," Jerry said. "Just for a few months." And that was heard as the reassurance he had meant, because he saw Piers' shoulders relax fractionally. God, he was still good-looking, lean and fair, though lines bracketed his mouth and spread at the corners of his eyes. They'd both come within an ace of being expelled their senior year, when a proctor had walked in on them when they were supposed to be studying — they hadn't been doing much, by Jerry's current standards, but the intent had been unmistakable. They'd each claimed to be the instigator, and Piers' father and Jerry's tutor and Iskinder's father had all exerted their influence to hush it up, but the whisper of scandal had followed Jerry to Chicago, and it had taken years for him to live it down. He wondered now what it had cost Piers.
The woman in the shantung dress was still waiting, looking from one to the other, hazel eyes wary, and Piers put his hand on her waist. "My dear, this is an old friend from college, Jerry Ballard. He was a professor at Chicago, the last I heard. Jerry, this is my wife Emily."
"A pleasure," Jerry said, and took the hand that was extended to him. "If you'll excuse me —"
In the same moment, Piers said, "Your leg — France?"
"Italy," Jerry answered. He had too many questions himself, and none of them were safe to ask. But he would have liked to know that things were well with Piers. "You?"
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 75
