Henry bit into his sandwich to buy time. A conversation with Helen must be what a tomato felt like when encountering a blade. He chewed and swallowed. “Listening to music.”
“Judging from the looks of you, it must have been” — she licked something red off her finger — “quite a show. Next time, you simply must take me.”
He took another, smaller bite, intending to shield himself with his sandwich for as long as he could. Helen tucked an enormous amount of cake into her mouth. The way she was looking at him made him check his fly, just to be sure.
“Of course,” he said, wishing he actually wanted to, wishing it didn’t feel like the single worst idea in the world. What if — he studied Helen, her hands, her wrists, and her heart-shaped face — what if he did choose her? He tried to imagine that life he was supposed to want, the security it would represent, the way it would please the Thornes and spare Helen’s feelings. And Flora had said they could never be together, not even someday. He shook his head and fought to focus.
Helen smiled and lifted another forkful of cake. “Wonderful. When shall we go?” She filled her mouth. As she chewed, she didn’t blink, even once. She reached across the table and tapped the back of his hand with a light fingertip. The room darkened and Henry lost feeling in his feet and legs. He gripped the table’s edge.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing, I don’t think. I’m probably just tired.” The feeling passed. He yawned. Then there were footsteps, and Ethan appeared on the far side of the kitchen, looking rumpled but surprisingly awake. His eyes widened.
“Well, now,” Helen said. “There’s our other night owl.”
She sniffed the air, and it gave Henry an overwhelming sense of something predatory about her.
“I was working, Helen,” Ethan said. “Give it a rest.” He took an apple from the bowl and bit it savagely.
“I don’t doubt it,” she said. “Henry and I were just making plans to listen to some of that cunning jazz music he likes so much. Won’t you join us?”
“Not interested,” Ethan said. He took another bite and rubbed juice from his chin with his thumb.
“You could bring a friend,” she said. “The person you’ve been working with so late. Goodness, I hope you’re not exhausted at school tomorrow. You know what your parents will say if your grades drop.”
Ethan squared his shoulders. “Fine. But only to make sure you don’t devour Henry like you’re going after that cake.”
Helen bent over her plate, shoveling cake into her mouth the way a laborer endeavors to fill a hole.
“You haven’t changed since you were a little girl eating sweets with your bare hands,” Ethan said, surveying the wreckage of her snack. “Do you ever stop with your disgusting devouring?”
“No,” Helen said, her mouth dark with frosting. “I do not.”
Not long afterward, as Henry lay in bed and felt his body succumb to sleep, he practiced a jazz riff in his head, one he hadn’t yet been able to get right. As his mind unclenched, he understood what his fingers needed to do and how his hands needed to work with each other, and he felt certain that in the morning, he’d be able to play it for real, if only he didn’t have to get up and go to school.
He breathed deeply. In his last moments of consciousness, it occurred to him that he’d never talked with Helen about what sort of music he’d been listening to.
Ethan must have said something about jazz. Surprising, given how much he hated his cousin. But Helen could rip anything out of you that she wanted.
FLORA wouldn’t admit it for anything, but she liked clean linens. Loved them, even. Unwrapping them from the crinkling brown paper Mrs. Miyashito used. The smooth feel of their ironed surfaces. The act of putting them in the closet next to the bar, their edges aligned like bones. The sheer impersonal order of them was a thing of beauty. And while it was true that the cycle of laundry was as futile as the cycle of life, it was equally true that no one ever dropped tears over a dirty napkin. Maybe Mrs. Miyashito, but she was the exception.
Because there was no one to hear her, Flora sang as she worked, a sweet little lie of a love song. “Easy Living.”
It was Grady’s new favorite. Grady. She felt guilty even thinking of him, after the time she’d spent with Henry. His friend Billie had recorded it for a motion picture that was set to open in the summer. It was the latest in a line of songs he’d taught her after he’d started courting her. She wasn’t quite sixteen when it started. She’d just left school so she could take care of Nana during the day, and she hadn’t even imagined such a role for herself until Sherman informed her he’d given Grady permission to come courting. Permission. As if that had been his to give.
She’d protested her lack of interest, which had only increased Grady’s. At first, she’d let him teach her the songs so they’d have something besides flowery nonsense to talk about. Then, she’d consented to see him outside of the club so he would stop bothering her about his feelings when they were at work, calling attention to the whole situation in front of the entire band. After that, it just seemed easier to keep things simmering along, never reaching any sort of emotional boil, because it would protect her from the interest of any other boy.
Oh, Grady. He was a decent musician. Nice-looking. Attentive. Polite to Nana. But their relationship was nothing like the easy living in the song. It felt forced, and she felt watched. Watched and managed. Like when they’d attend church together on Sundays … it bothered her to know that everyone looked at them as a couple who would one day be married. Or they’d take a walk in the park and he’d hold her elbow and lead her along at a pace that didn’t quite match hers, and he’d smile and shake his head when she wanted to pause and steal a glance at the sky.
All those times he’d tried to kiss her, she’d pushed him away. He once even asked her to marry him, probably thinking that’s the sort of thing that would make her finally consent. She’d panicked and said not yet, by which she meant not ever. He was waiting until she turned eighteen to make things official. She intended to hold him off until she made her flight, and then, if everything went according to plan, she was free. She could leave the club in Sherman’s hands and spend the rest of her days as Bessie Coleman had done. She’d have left already if it weren’t for Nana and the matter of money.
Whatever she thought of Grady, “Easy Living” was a good song. Quite possibly too good, because she’d closed her eyes so she could really feel the second verse. As she did this, she saw Henry in her mind’s eye. She couldn’t think about what it meant, not when she was singing.
The slam of a door in the distance saved her from dark thoughts. Then came footsteps on the stairs. She stopped mid-note.
“Don’t quit on our accounts.” The voice belonged to the first of three men in suits who stood in formation at the bottom of the staircase. “That was a hot little number you were singing.”
He opened his coat to reveal a badge clipped to the inside pocket of his jacket. It glinted in the half-light of the club. Tax inspectors.
“My uncle isn’t here right now.” Flora regretted her choice to work in solitude.
“Well, isn’t that a shame,” the tax inspector said. He stuck out his hand. “Edgar Potts. Alcohol Tax Unit.”
His palm was moist, and she wished she could wipe her hand on her dress without seeming rude.
“Can I help you, Mr. Potts?”
“Probably so.” His slow voice dripped with something worse than sweat. He gave a look to the two men flanking him. It was clear that whatever joke Mr. Potts was making was at her expense. They wouldn’t get a rise out of her that easily. Flora waited. If Mr. Potts wanted something, he’d have to spit it out. The silence thickened as the seconds passed, a technique she’d learned while stalling Grady.
Mr. Potts finally broke. He pulled a dingy handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. Flora wished he
’d get to the spot on his upper lip. Even in the low light, it was damp enough to gleam.
“We’re here about your taxes,” he said.
Flora didn’t reply straight off. Taxes weren’t her turf, and Sherman usually shooed her away the moment these sorts of men appeared. Now she understood why. There was something snaky about Mr. Potts’s eyes. He was looking for an opportunity to strike, and Flora didn’t want to say anything that accidentally brought trouble to the club. The two men with Mr. Potts took a half step forward so that the three of them formed a wall between her and the exit. Her pulse throbbed in her temples.
“I’m sure my uncle Sherman would be happy to go over those with you tomorrow afternoon when he’s here.” She kept her voice smooth and calm. “Can I offer you a bit of something to eat?” The leftover corn bread would still taste good, even if it was meant to be taken to the poor. Mr. Potts hesitated, and Flora hoped she didn’t look as jittery as she felt.
“We’ll take you up on that,” Mr. Potts said, finally. “And we’ll have a bit of something to drink. And then” — he paused and coughed into his wet hand — “we’ll take a look at your books. Today. Right now, even. We know it’s your club as much as it’s his. Your name’s on the tax rolls, after all.”
Flora stared hard at him, certain he’d purposely chosen to come on a day when Sherman wasn’t there, thinking she’d be an easy mark. He was in for a surprise. Their books were as clean as the laundry, and she had more life experience under her sash than most people her age. Other clubs might try to cut corners on the liquor taxes, but not the Domino.
“Fine, then. Won’t you please follow me … gentlemen?” They weren’t the only ones who could make a joke.
She headed through the swinging kitchen door and felt the warm weight of someone’s hand on her backside. Gritting her teeth hard enough to crack stone, she stepped out of Mr. Potts’s grip and walked to the long wooden counter in the middle of the room without saying a word.
She chose the largest knife Charlie had to cut the corn bread. It didn’t make the job easier, especially as her hands were shaking. But it sent a message, she hoped, as she used its tip to set three squares of yellow onto three white plates. She poured three glasses of milk, knowing it wasn’t the type of beverage Mr. Potts had in mind. He couldn’t exactly complain, though. He wasn’t supposed to drink on the job. Her breathing deepened as she felt herself take control of the room, much as she did when she was onstage, creating a barrier of notes between her and her audience.
“Won’t you please sit?” She pointed the knife toward a round table in the corner where she and Sherman and the rest of the staff ate during their breaks. Mr. Potts and his flunkies let her serve them corn bread and milk, which he eyed as if it was from a one-eyed goat. Flora let herself smile fully. Maybe she’d get lucky and he’d choke. “I’ll be back with the books in a moment.”
She felt their eyes follow her into the safe in the storeroom, where Sherman kept the records. Someone wolf whistled — not Mr. Potts, who was in the middle of a spongy cough. Oh, to cut the three of them into squares and serve them up on clean white plates. That would be something. She found the ledger and stood a couple of paces from the table, holding the book, bound in marbled cardboard, to her chest.
Mr. Potts snapped. “Let’s see it here.”
She set it in front of him and moved his milk and corn bread away.
He flipped it open and found the most recent entries. “How do I know you don’t keep a second set of books?”
“A second set? I don’t know what you might mean. But I believe my uncle would tell you it’s work enough to keep the one.”
Mr. Potts made a show of studying the numbers. He nodded and grunted as he reached across the table and stuffed his mouth with corn bread, dropping greasy crumbs on the pages that Sherman had labored over.
“Got anything else for us?” he asked. “Any other source of income to report? Your uncle” — the way he said the word indicated he didn’t believe the relationship was true — “hasn’t gone into an older line of business, has he?”
It took Flora a moment to understand his suggestion that Sherman was a pimp and she was his prostitute. And by “anything else,” Mr. Potts meant a bribe.
“Unless you gentlemen would like some more corn bread, that’s all I have. Most folks say it’s the best thing on the menu. My grandmother’s recipe.”
Mr. Potts flipped the book closed. He dabbed his lips with his dirty handkerchief, once again missing the perspiration beneath his nose.
“See, that’s just the thing,” he said. “Taxes are complicated, and I wouldn’t expect a young … lady … such as yourself to understand them fully. Your uncle being unavailable during working hours makes me certain he’s hiding something or up to some other unlawful business. So we’re going to have to shut this place down. Unless —”
“Unless what?” Flora looked at her pocketbook. She’d forgotten to put Nana’s money back in the canister. Mr. Potts registered the glance and a smile slithered across his lips.
“Well now,” he said. “I can see that you might be more savvy about business matters than you’ve let on.”
Flora looked away. The thought of giving this man what he wanted made her blood smoke. But if it would get rid of him, it was maybe worth it. She hesitated, wishing Sherman were here to handle things. This was her grandmother’s money. Money Nana meant for her to spend on her flight, not that she intended to. But if she didn’t pay, they’d shut the club down.
Flora panicked. In that moment, the thing she most wanted was for those men to be gone, and she wanted the Domino to keep its doors open. She could pay Nana back, eventually. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out half the bills. Mr. Potts made a show of eyeing what remained. Flora, her hands shaking, gave him all of it.
“Satisfied?” She couldn’t resist spiking the word with venom.
“I don’t have a clue what you might be talking about, miss.” Mr. Potts opened his jacket. His badge flashed as he tucked the bills inside and smoothed the bulge from his chest. She looked toward the door.
“If that’s all,” Flora said, “I have work to do. I hope you’ll be coming back for the performance.” She also hoped her tone made it clear she wanted them gone for good.
“No offense intended,” Mr. Potts said, “but your kind of music … it just isn’t our thing.”
As he headed for the stairs, Mr. Potts slowly brushed against Flora’s chest. He grunted as he did, and she swallowed her protests. You had to pick and choose your battles with men like these. It wasn’t so much about winning as surviving.
When they’d gone, she leaned against the storeroom door. Her whole body shook, but she did not cry. Even if they weren’t there to see it, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She hoped Sherman wouldn’t be disappointed with how she’d handled the situation. The day she was free of all of this could not come soon enough.
NOT long afterward, Love followed Grady Bates into a rough section of town a few blocks south of the Domino. At first, he’d appeared as James Booth, in his shabby suit, his golden hair glowing in the light. Worried about witnesses, Love broadened his frame, ruined his posture, and added a bit more history to his clothes and face. He stayed two blocks behind Grady, following him through the benign rays of an early-afternoon sun.
The neighborhood was bleak compared to other parts of the city, especially compared to where Henry lived. A row of skinny maple trees planted along the sidewalk offered little in the way of shade or ornament. Crumpled bits of yellow newsprint tumbled through vacant lots, and shards of glass from broken bottles glittered in the dirt.
A single thought circled through Love’s mind as he walked, a mad idea, one he should have spit out like a piece of bad meat.
Kill Grady Bates.
It unsettled him, to say the least. He doubted this was how Death felt stalking her prey, exposed
and quaking. But it was the right choice. Grady was a danger and an obstacle, and the way to remove him permanently was to steal a play from Death’s book.
She would be furious, of course. Love wondered briefly why that bothered him more than the prospect of a man’s imminent murder.
Grady stepped inside a shop that carried newspapers, magazines, and tobacco. Unsure how long the man’s business would take, Love leaned against a lamppost and waited. He was halfway tempted to go inside and buy a newspaper, but something held him back. Instead, he considered murder methods. What would he do if he were human? Use his fists? Wield a broken bottle like a knife?
How intimate fists and blades were. Almost as intimate as love itself. Death often used a touch, but Love couldn’t imagine it was anything like love, what she did. Her powers also far exceeded his own. She could manipulate matter, bring down an airship, and stop time. By comparison, his gift felt pathetic. All he could do was fill a heart with love.
He removed his hat and rubbed his forehead, squinting against the sun. The door opened and Grady emerged with a newspaper folded beneath his arm. Love peered inside Grady’s heart. The man’s next desire? A gingersnap — and a moment with the pretty girl who worked behind the bakery counter.
This small infidelity ordinarily would have bothered Love. Now, he relished it. He followed Grady into the bakery. The young woman behind the counter — she was perhaps two or three years older than Flora — regarded him with a flicker of suspicion before she turned her attention back to Grady and smiled. It stung to be treated differently for his skin color. To think of how often the white majority of the city looked this way at the small population of brown-skinned residents was worrisome. As ever, Death had been shrewd in her choice of player.
He perceived a third human in the bakery. The baker, a quiet, middle-aged man, shuffled out from the back, his face dusted with flour. He looked hot, no doubt from standing by ovens all day long. With regret, Love plumbed the depths of the baker’s heart, adding layers to it as a brick mason might construct a wall. He needed to insert an overdose of the wrong type of love, the sandpapery, possessive sort that rubs a heart raw. He folded this twisted love into the soft spaces, and he held it in place so the man’s mind could not shake it free.
The Game of Love and Death Page 11
