Murder at the Flamingo

by Rachel McMillan

  The man to Luca’s left looked between them and smiled. “There.” He smiled at Luca, whose face was granite. “There it is. A breaking point.” He crossed the room to Schultze, commandeered his walking stick, and, before anyone could intervene or Hamish could flinch, pressed it into Hamish’s neck, simultaneously knocking his glasses off. Hamish blinked a few times, focusing without the lenses. Then choked, gasping frantically against the pressure. Spots marred his vision and Reggie’s voice behind him sounded like it was in a tunnel. Panicked, he clutched the stick tightly, though the tendons in his fingers strained acutely, the nerves in his bicep aching from the restraint of their natural tremor.

  He reminded himself, through his fear and his pain, that it was better that it was him—not Reggie, who was now in his periphery, her arm pinned behind her back—and that the man standing behind Luca—Hamish could just see through his squint—had dropped Luca’s arm but still kept a tight grip on his cousin’s shoulder, pressing him down as if he could shove him into the floor.

  He saw Luca’s mouth move and he supposed it was emitting a few words in a colorful language, but it sounded farther and farther away.

  His eyes watered and he felt unbearably hot. He wondered what was rattling and realized it was the wheeze from his truncated windpipe.

  He tried to fight through the black but the spots persisted and became larger and he wondered if this was like falling . . . like dying . . .

  He closed his eyes and went limp, felt every tendon in his fingers loosen. Then the curtain behind his eyes fell over splotchy kaleidoscope colors.

  He looked dead. Hamish looked dead. Reggie panicked. She wriggled and wriggled then finally gained enough liberty to wrestle her elbow out and drive it into the thug’s ribs. She quickly stomped on his foot with her Spanish heel and heard a crack over his exclamation of pain. She flew at Hamish.

  “He’s still breathing,” she reported from behind Hamish’s limp figure. He looked younger in this repose with a single swath of his licorice hair over his forehead.

  “You’ve made your point,” said the big man Reggie had heard addressed as Phil. “He doesn’t have the file. He proved that to you when you tried to kill his cousin.”

  Reggie looked up from Hamish’s still form a moment to watch Luca. “I swear to you. It’s not in Boston. I don’t have what you want. So don’t hurt my cousin!”

  “Then it’s in Chicago. With Fulham. Another loose end. You’ve got quite a reputation for loose ends. At least we know your breaking point, Valari. If we don’t come for you, we’ll come for your pretty friend here . . . or your young cousin.” He motioned for his partner to join him and they slammed the door behind them.

  Tom Schultze followed, speaking in pleading tones. “I am only investing in the Flamingo. I have nothing to do with him.”

  Reggie brushed Hamish’s hair back from his forehead. Its texture was finer than she imagined when she’d examined its swerved sheen earlier in the club.

  When she looked up, Luca was beside her, the blood at his lip congealing, rubbing at his arm.

  “You almost got him killed.” Her palm was up to Hamish’s slightly parted lips. His breathing became stronger but was accompanied by a wheeze of a whistle.

  “He needs to wake up,” Luca said through gritted teeth.

  To his credit—his brief and wavering credit—Reggie noticed that Luca’s face had taken on an ashen hue she didn’t think possible due to his dark complexion.

  “I can’t work for you!” Reggie’s voice hit a hysterical height. “What are you involved in? It’s one thing for these men to accuse you, but what if it’s true? What if—”

  “Not now, Reggie.” Luca cursed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Poor Hamish,” was all she could think of to say. “Wake up.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Luca, what happened in Chicago? All those calls.”

  Luca ignored her. “Phil? Phil!” The large man was still on the sideline. “Go get the car and bring it up, and if that doorman gives you a hassle, shove him through a window.”

  When Phil was gone, Reggie sneered at Luca. “He could have died! What is it they think you have? Don’t drag him into this, Luca, I beg you.”

  “I care more about him than I do myself! And I always will.”

  “Then give them what they want and send him home!”

  “I need him.” Luca’s teeth were clenched.

  “You can’t lift him. That man nearly ripped your arm off.”

  Finally, Hamish opened his eyes a little. They were so blue—and wide too. Uninhibited by his glasses. Reggie saw the glare of a lens out of the corner of her eye and reached for them. They were unharmed.

  Luca’s handsome face softened into a mask of vulnerability. “You alive, Cic?”

  Hamish nodded slightly, which hurt him greatly. He winced. He tried to speak but coughed instead.

  Luca used his good arm to prop Hamish up. “We need to get you home.” He looked around.

  “I can help,” she said, gently taking Hamish’s elbow. “Come on then.” He was a little unsteady on his feet, but he started walking.

  Luca kept a bracing arm around his cousin’s back, and Hamish seemed happy to fall into the crook of Luca’s shoulder. Reggie placed his glasses on his nose, took a step back, and adjusted them. “Better,” she said, with a smile that Hamish tried to return. It barely got up the side of his mouth. She leaned in to the ear farthest from Luca and whispered, “Thanks for the adventure, William Powell.”

  The small smile stretched a little and she led them out of the open door.

  Hamish’s head hurt when he woke. Even prying his eyelids open stung. At first, he was displaced, unsure where he was and how he got there, but then he recognized the quilt over his legs and the décor of Luca’s living room. He was still fully clothed, his tie loosened, lying on the couch.

  He felt at his neck. It was still raw and bruised from where the walking stick had jammed. Swallowing would be hard for a few days. Fidget must have peeled back the curtains, for the broad windows showed Tremont Street waking, parishioners and tourists mulling outside the Park Street Church and the Granary Burying Ground. He knew the sun would inspire droves to the Common and the public park for a lazy afternoon. The familiar sights of Boston through the glass and from his vantage point did wonders for smoothing out the terror from the night before.

  “Hamish!” Fidget peeked in from the kitchen. “I thought I heard you rustling.”

  Hamish looked down at his motionless form.

  “Can I get you something to drink, dear?”

  “Bit of a sore throat this morning.”

  “Might make you some cocoa. Or tea with honey? Sip it slow, help you feel right as rain.”

  Hamish nodded. “That’d be fine. Thank you, Fidget.”

  Fidget crossed the living room and smoothed back his hair. “You are a good boy, Hamish. A good boy.”

  The motherly gesture touched him. For a moment he felt a pang of homesickness. His mom checking in on him when he was ill, smoothing back his hair and kissing him on the cheek. He could almost detect the faintest scent of her customary lavender with the memory. But then there was Reggie. He certainly warmed to her quickly. But his mother had always told him that the first time she saw his father, it was the same. Maybe Reggie was like Boston: something he wanted to trace and study and find familiar so he could draw some kind of strength from her. She was the kind of girl you knew quickly, if you knew what to look for. Just like Boston was beautiful to those who knew what to look for: what cobblestoned alleyways to turn down, what tree in the Public Garden afforded the best view of Boylston Street. He chuckled darkly. Just like him to think about a girl when Luca had a much bigger problem on his hands. Whatever Luca’s business was, it was more than a club.

  Hamish checked his watch. It was only half past eleven. He assumed Luca was still fast asleep. He was almost glad. His cousin’s eventual appearance wouldn’t stop the flow of a thousand and one questio
ns. What was Luca involved in, and why was Hamish stupid enough to think that his cousin had changed? His father was right: Luca always ended up in someone’s web. That was what he had been telling Hamish for years, trying to keep him from Luca’s influence—despite Hamish’s protests and the fun they had at a dance club or a ball game.

  “Cic!” he heard a few moments later, though not from the direction of Luca’s bedroom, but the front door.

  “Luca—” Hamish’s voice croaked.

  Luca proudly held up a package tied with white twine. “Lemon cannoli. Got it myself. Walked all the way to Prince Street.”

  “You didn’t have to go all that way, Luca.”

  “Yes, I did. You have no idea how sorry I am.” Luca dropped the box on the table and sat at Hamish’s feet on the sofa. “No idea. I can’t even . . .”

  Hamish was used to Luca’s easy strings of hyperbolic reassurance, but he also knew when his cousin’s sincerity poked through. Luca’s eyes told him everything his words assured.

  “I’ll live,” Hamish said. “But I need to know what happened. What did those men want from you?”

  “They thought I had something. I don’t.”

  “Luca, I am involved now. I live here. I see Phil block the door every night. Reggie and I walked in on a violent meeting that could have gotten worse. That man was going to sever your finger.” Hamish felt his stomach turn.

  “They know you’re off-limits. They know that. They know.” Luca’s nod was frantic and unconvincing. “I told them. It was an accident.” He patted Hamish’s arm. “They won’t touch you again. They needed to make a point. To me and to Schultze.”

  “An accident? Luca, what were they doing to you? If Reggie and I hadn’t shown up, if that man . . .”

  Luca’s red-rimmed eyes shut. “He was just going to rough me up a second. To show face in front of his goon.”

  “Is that what you really think?” Hamish’s voice scratched and he welcomed the hot drink Fidget brought him. Luca gave her a quick smile and shooed her away. Hamish studied his cousin. He was remarkably calm. Especially for having slept so little and having almost lost a finger the night before. He blinked and refocused. Something in his chest sped up, but he ignored it. A ripple. An aftereffect of the trauma of the night before? Or perhaps . . .

  “I am so naïve,” Hamish said after a few ticks of silence. He tried to sit up but the blood rushed to his head. He grunted and put his head back down on the sofa cushion. “I thought you were doing this right. Everything I had seen so far showed me that you were doing this right. Bank loans. Co-signees. Associates. No tommy guns or broken kneecaps.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What am I, an accountant? I just happen to work in certain circles that attract the type of people who want to squeeze a buck.”

  “Luca, what are you doing? Have I been stupid? Is everything my father has always said about you true?”

  Luca darkened. “You are part of the Flamingo, Hamish. That is all you are a part of.”

  “I can’t be a part of one aspect of your life without being a part of all of it, it seems. I want to help.”

  “You can’t help.” Luca’s voice rose. “How could you possibly help? You’re here for a lark because you got it in your innocent little head to run away from home. I’m putting you up in my gorgeous apartment and introducing you to pretty girls and—”

  “This isn’t about me!” Hamish raised his voice, but the effort made his throat raw. He reached for his mug and sipped slowly. “This is about being called all the time. Here and at the office. This is about Phil trailing you. Whatever you left behind in Chicago. Whatever is nipping at your heels, I want to help you with it. I don’t want to spend every night at a different club and half the day waiting for you to sleep off martinis from the night before.”

  “Don’t judge me. You are free to leave at any time.”

  Hamish put his hand over his eyes. “I can’t leave now. I can’t. I was going to wait until the Flamingo opened and see what to do. But now I have to protect you.”

  Luca laughed bitterly. “How could you possibly protect me? Some anxious kid from Canada who can’t even see his way through his first real trial.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you, Cic, but I am giving you a chance at a life here.”

  Hamish motioned to his tender throat. “Some life. Luca, those men wanted to do a lot worse to you.” He was sick of talking. He was sick of looking at Luca too. His cousin’s eyes were red-rimmed. Luca hadn’t slept at all.

  “Let them try,” Luca said. “I have a club to open and a business to run and I was going to bring you into it. I am giving you a chance to be something more than you thought you could be. Don’t you like living here on top of the city? The endless tabs, the girls and the dancing?”

  “I could—”

  “Don’t you like cycling to the North End knowing that you have somewhere cozy to come back to? You want anything, I’ll give it to you. We’re so close to the opening. Things will change.”

  Hamish exhaled. He didn’t want things to change. Especially if change meant knowing what Luca truly was. He wanted to barricade his thoughts from turning to the worst. He fingered his wrinkled suit collar, almost feeling guilty for having fallen asleep in such a pricey outfit. “Luca, I just wanted to spend time with you. Have an adventure. Go to a few baseball games. I don’t care about all this fancy stuff.” He blinked away belated tears that chose the most inopportune moment to prick his eyes, after his having survived the hurt of the night before and the anxiety at seeing Luca roughed up by those goons in the basement. The heart palpitations, the hand tremor before he blacked out. “I’m not . . . I’m not good with meeting people. I never had a lot of friends. But you were more than my cousin. You were like my brother. I had no one else and . . .” Hamish swallowed and blinked away a tear. “So I don’t care about the parties or the fancy drinks.”

  “Just don’t ask any more questions. I don’t need you to protect me. I don’t want you involved in anything. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “But I was hurt. And that was okay because I knew for a moment I was taking their attention off of you. I thought—”

  “Stop!” Luca slammed his hand on the side table, startling Hamish, shuddering the crystals dripping from the lamp, sloshing tea out of the mug.

  Hamish stared a moment. His hand was shaking slightly. He tucked it under the blanket.

  “Don’t you ever, ever, ever think of that again, Cic. All right? My decisions are my decisions and their consequences are mine, not yours.” Luca’s eyes bored into him. “I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty. I certainly don’t inspire it. And I am not asking you to do anything illegal. I never would. Ever. I’ll earn your loyalty. I’ll show you.”

  “It’s not about earning it,” Hamish whispered. “You’re Luca. You didn’t have to earn it, you just had to be my cousin.”

  Luca blinked a few times then shifted his eyes to the tied package. He tore at the string with his long fingers and creaked back the cardboard. Crisp oblongs stuffed with light green clouds of filling sat in appetizing ovals of grease.

  “My favorite.” Hamish accepted the pastry Luca offered, finding the cold filling easy on his throat.

  “Mine too.” Luca’s voice was a little uneven.

  And Hamish guessed, for the moment, that at least in this they were the same.

  CHAPTER 11

  Having stuck her finger in the dam of anger with Luca for the moment, Reggie turned her thoughts to Hamish. Hamish with the bicycle and the shy smile. They hadn’t known each other long. But in that moment she felt strongly. Like she would peel herself from the goon holding her and throw herself in his place.

  She reached instinctively for her Journal of Independence. Beyond the sundry accomplishments of grocery shopping and cooking and installing a lightbulb and sewing a button, it lapsed into pages of the romantic. Of moonlight and sonatas. Of dancing under the drop of stars in
an endless sky and stealing a moment and a breathless kiss that wrapped around her and sparkled down to her toes.

  The memory of a moment surged . . . of her pressing into his back as they descended the stairs to the bowels of that club. Feeling his staccato breath, his thumping heartbeat.

  Reggie corked her thoughts before they ran any more freely. They had just met. She at least had known Vaughan for more than half her life. But when did Vaughan dance with her like that?

  Reggie slid out of her nightgown and pulled a green cotton dress over her head. She smoothed her curls and stared at the leftover flakes of mascara sticking to her eyelashes from her careless bedtime routine the night before.

  She couldn’t work for a man clearly involved in something illegal. She knew that from day one, but there had been Nate and cannoli and Winchester Molloy and Mrs. Leoni and now Hamish. Maybe she could find some way to stay attached to the North End. Maybe Mrs. Leoni would hire her. Or she could work at the Temporary Employment Agency. Ha! Ironic. Reggie out of a job and finding employment at a place that had little to dole to anyone, let alone an entitled rich girl like herself.

  Reggie ran her fingers through her hair, still wavy with the extra attention she had taken in curling it the night before. She figured if she didn’t show up at the office, Nate would worry about her. He was becoming a dear friend. And while she knew Luca lived in a penthouse on Tremont near the Common, she wasn’t sure which penthouse, and the news of how Hamish was faring was best learned at the office.

  She walked slowly to the elevated train, took a seat, and leaned her head against the glass as it trundled over the tracks above the Charles River.

  When she finally got to the office, her cotton dress sticking to her back, she set about dusting the office and answering phone calls and pretending she cared about the stupid Flamingo.

  “You look tired,” Nate said, popping his head through the door. He meant it kindly.

  “Late night. Luca had me check out a club.”

  “So there are more perks to your job than making your own hours and having nothing more pressing to do than write hypothetical situations for Winchester Molloy to get out of,” he said with a teasing wink.