All for a Story

by Allison Pittman

  “Care to join us?”

  The invitation came from a handsome, well-groomed model of a man. A touch of gray at his temples, a strong jaw, a suit expensive but not custom-tailored. He wore one ring with a dark stone—a garnet, perhaps—and another of pure gold with a Shriners emblem clearly visible in the firelight. It was in this hand that he held his drink, while the other gestured across the room, ordering her a— “Brandy?”

  She nodded, agreeing to both, and settled on the far end of the vacated sofa. Why not indulge in a bit of a game? She needed fodder for next week’s column and proof that she could charm another man, should she ever need to do so. Deep in the corner of her mind, like a shadowy figure in fading film, she saw Max’s moonlike smile, but she pushed it aside.

  Two other men, each wearing rings similar to that of the first, greeted her with easy smiles, their faces loosened by drink.

  “We saw you earlier,” the first man said, returning with her drink and sitting down beside her. Not too close. “Don’t tell us your date has abandoned you.”

  Monica took a dainty, alluring sip.

  “We had a parting of opinions.”

  “I think I’d go along with anything you say.” This from one of the other two, who leaned across from his own plush wingback chair to run his hand along the top of her leg. The gold of his ring glinted in the firelight.

  “Then I guess I’ve been wasting my time.” She took another sip and waited for the alcohol to take effect. Once things became fuzzy enough, she could look at these guys and decide if any would be most worth her time. There were more important things than buying a girl a drink. There were dinners, furs, perfume . . . In the meantime, his hand was on her leg, his touch burning her to the bone, and she shifted beneath it, dislodging his grip.

  If she’d offended him, he gave no indication. Not overtly, anyway, but when he settled back into his chair, he looked over the rim of his glass, and there was no mistaking the threat that lurked there. She would not invite another touch.

  His companions laughed, including the man who first bought her the drink.

  “Looks like my friend is out of luck for tonight,” he said, sending a silent toast. “The lady knows a lounge lizard when she sees one.”

  “She sees three,” Monica said, glancing at each in turn. She coyly spun the drink within her glass and took a sip, waiting to see which would rise to the bait.

  Two of them chuckled.

  She let her gaze linger on the first man. “What’s your name, daddy?”

  “Bernardo.”

  She knew it wasn’t true, but she repeated it anyway. “Bernardo. Italian?”

  “Perceptive.” His voice was rich and deep, his lips soft and full.

  She took a drag on her cigarette, exhaled, and asked, “And your friends?”

  “Prefer to remain anonymous, as I’m sure you can understand.”

  In fact, it took a minute for her to understand. She was heady from the smoke, and though she’d had only a few sips of alcohol, it was strong. Quality, the kind only a select few were granted. Had she ordered her own drink, no doubt it would have been watered down. But this was every bit as good as the stuff in Edward Moore’s safety-deposit box. This was what people drank before the law, or what they drank in spite of the law.

  She took another drink.

  “Are you gangsters?” The boldness was kicking in. “I met a gangster once. Stared down the barrel of his gun. Well, not his gun. But a couple of his hired goons’.” She looked at the other two men with new understanding. “Say, you two aren’t the goons, are you?”

  The cigarette and the drink fueled her bravado; if her instincts were correct, that facade would keep her safe. Here, there was no Max to hide behind.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Bernardo said, “why it is a woman—lovely as you are—would choose to come into an establishment such as this unaccompanied. I find it disturbing.”

  He spoke in a deep, measured tone matched perfectly to the cello in the background. Anybody just listening in might think he was being unfailingly polite. But then, they wouldn’t be privy to the black steel glint in his eyes.

  “I just came in for a drink,” she said, working to keep the fear out of her voice. “And I like this place. It’s classy.”

  He nodded in a way that took credit for the compliment. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Once or twice.” They were warming up to each other, and with her silent consent, he gestured for another drink.

  “With your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend anymore.” She leaned back, comfortable. “Turns out he’s married.”

  “No.” Bernardo leaned back too, relaxed enough to allow his suit jacket to fall to the side, revealing a hint of leather holster beneath it. “What is a man if he has no honor?”

  His companions echoed in agreement.

  “Or a woman, for that matter,” he continued. “May I ask you, Miss—”

  “Monica.”

  “Miss Monica, are you a woman of honor?”

  She took a final drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the cut-glass dish on the small table to the side of the sofa. “So far as I know.”

  “Then you can understand how I wish only to preserve that honor. A beautiful woman like you, in here alone, men might get the wrong idea.” He sent a withering glare to his cohort who had been guilty of such a misunderstanding.

  “Are you saying I should leave?”

  “I think that would be best, yes.”

  “Then why do you keep ordering drinks for me?”

  He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that somehow made her think of warm caramel. If she were to look for a new boyfriend, he might not be a bad choice. Handsome, protective, powerful. He obviously felt at home here, and for a moment, she did too. A man in a crisp white coat came with a tray of fresh drinks. These were not the same as she’d been drinking before, but tiny shot glasses filled with a dark liquor.

  “Salute,” Bernardo said, holding his aloft.

  “Salute,” they—his companions and Monica—answered. Following their example, she downed the drink in a single gulp, not fully realizing its licorice-like flavor until after she’d swallowed. It so happened that their drink coincided with the final notes of the song being played by the quartet, and they set their glasses down amid a smattering of applause.

  “It’s a nice way to end an evening,” Bernardo said. “Am I right?”

  “You’ve got it, daddy.” Monica licked the lingering liquor from her lips. His careful politeness kept shame at bay, and for that she was grateful, but his meaning couldn’t be more clear. “’Course it’s not quite that easy, for me at least. Like I said earlier, my date dumped me. He was my ride home.” She planted a hand on the cushion between them and leaned forward, knowing this angle worked the neckline of her dress to her advantage. After all, this guy might even have a limousine.

  He appeared unfazed. “How were you planning to get home?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged the neckline that much wider. “There’s usually someone headed toward my side of town. A girl can usually find a ride.”

  “I could give her a ride, boss.” This from the intrepid man who had touched her leg.

  “You see?” Bernardo said. “This is exactly what I mean. Girls like you bring trouble to an establishment such as this. Bad enough we have to tiptoe around the Volstead; we shouldn’t be peddling flesh.”

  Outrage churned within her, but she chose instead to feign a coy confusion.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Bernardo. I came in here for a drink. Nothing more. It’s a compliment to your place that a nice girl like me would come in here.”

  “Who said it’s my place?”

  Monica sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. “I’m a nice girl, Mr. Bernardo. Not a stupid one. You’d be surprised what I know and don’t know.”

  Bernardo didn’t blink. Instead, he reached beneath his jacket, setting Monica�
�s heart on fire as she saw the iron glint of his gun in the firelight. Mother always said her mouth would get her into trouble. But Bernardo didn’t seem to have taken much offense to her words, as he produced not a gun but a sizable bundle of cash. He opened the golden clip and peeled two bills off the top.

  “Cab fare.” He nodded to the man who’d touched her. “Go make the call. Get it here in five minutes.”

  “I don’t need your money.” Not bad enough to confirm his suspicions. Her shoes were comfortable enough.

  “Take it. We can forget this unpleasant conversation.”

  He held out an amount that would have covered a fare halfway to New Jersey. The lingering liqueur turned sour in her mouth, but a sense of practicality won out. She took one of the bills, saying, “I don’t live far,” but stopped short of saying thank you. Hooded glances of the clandestine patrons burned the back of her neck, and if people were going to assume the worst, who was she to disappoint? She took Bernardo’s face in her hands, leaned forward, and placed a long, lingering kiss on his soft, powerful lips.

  “I’m not what you think I am,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Perhaps,” he whispered into hers, “I’m merely the first to notice. Buona fortuna.”

  Don’t be afraid to make a mistake; your readers might like it.

  WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST

  IT WAS SEVEN O’CLOCK in the morning when Max arrived at the Capitol Chatter offices. The night’s darkness lurked outside the grimy windows as he typed up a dozen pages of scribbled notes and ideas, creating one coherent vision to be mimeographed and distributed when the staff assembled at nine. In truth, his message was a simple one; the scattered thoughts represented an attempt to keep his mind occupied over the weekend. Anything to chase away the image of the guy who had swept Monica away so effortlessly. That booming voice wrapped around her giggle had haunted him, taking his thoughts where they had no business going. Besides a brief visit to a dull church on Sunday morning, he’d spent two entire days with copies of every newspaper available, reading articles, studying advertisements, ascertaining tone and intent. Politics, crime, freakish events—sometimes all represented in a single story. He looked for joy, encouragement, faith, and found little.

  The drafting of a letter to Sister Aimee occupied much of Sunday evening, asking her for prayer and advice in his venture. And then a sleepless night culminating in the predawn boarding of a streetcar.

  The only sound was the spinning of the drum of the mimeograph machine, and he felt a great deal of satisfaction with each printed page that rolled out from underneath it. Here was a plan—his plan, divinely inspired and, hopefully, faithfully implemented.

  Thomas Harper Jr. was, characteristically, the first to arrive, bringing with him a poster-board chart with lots of numbers and a big red line. This he set on a wobbly easel that seemed to maintain its balance in deference to the severity of his gaze.

  Zelda Ovenoff came next, bringing with her a large white paper bag blotched with the telltale grease stains of doughnuts.

  “Good morning, Mr. Moore, Mr. Harper. I’ll make coffee.”

  It was the first time Max had seen her since that morning in Uncle Edward’s—his—home, and she bustled about with the same controlled efficiency. This time, though, he could clearly see the beloved woman in the photograph beneath the animated janitress.

  “Thank you, Zelda,” he said, perhaps more tenderly than he ought, as she shot him a confused, guarded look.

  “You have good news for us, I hope, Mr. Moore?”

  “I hope so too.”

  She granted him a quick nod before taking the office’s electric percolator to be filled, nearly colliding with Tony Manarola as she left.

  “Hey,” Tony said to the exiting Zelda, “where’s the fire?” Then, turning to see Max in the doorway, said, “Sorry, kid.”

  “You know about that?” He searched his mind, trying to remember if he’d told anybody about the fire that claimed the lives of his parents, but as far as he knew, only Mr. Bolling would have access to those details, and it was doubtful Uncle Edward had ever shared such a matter of personal tragedy.

  Tony tapped his nose. “You don’t just let someone walk into your family without doin’ a little checkin’ up, if you know what I mean.”

  “I guess I should be honored.”

  Tony shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

  The office door opened again, this time by a red-cheeked Trevor, who graciously held it for the returning Zelda.

  “Such a good boy,” she said, resting a free hand against his cheek as she passed.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” Max asked with a quick glance at the clock.

  “It’ll be there later. This is my science hour, anyway. Mr. Tottle won’t even know I’m gone.”

  Max resisted the urge to tell him that he simply wasn’t needed here today. There’d be no errands, no messages, no mail to deliver or telegraphs to send. But the boy had already hung his patched-at-the-elbow coat on the peg right beside Max’s own, so he simply clapped Trevor on the back and solicited a promise to be back on school grounds before lunch.

  By eight forty-five, all the staff had arrived—with one notable exception—and the office was warmed not only by the heat coming from the radiators but also by the smell of fresh coffee, served in mismatched cups. Zelda’s doughnuts were well received, with Tony being the first to dive for the platter and devour half a pastry in a single bite.

  It was a contented silence that fell onto the room, with just a few comments about the cold and baseball and Charlie Chaplin as the next minutes ticked by. It wasn’t until she opened the door that Max realized he’d been waiting to see her. Not just this morning, for this meeting, but since that afternoon at the bank when they’d walked out the door and she’d gone to the right when he turned to the left. And not just waiting, but worrying that she might not come. That she wouldn’t want to see him after that clumsy, pathetic phone call.

  The Enchanted April. The book was in his satchel hanging on the hook behind his coat. Hidden, as if anybody could guess.

  But here she was, piercing their presence with a loud complaint about falling out of bed at the crack of dawn, and if she wanted to keep bankers’ hours she would have been a banker, and there had better be some coffee left or she was turning right around and heading home. The entire diatribe came out in a single breath during the time it took for her to hang up her coat and throw herself into the chair directly next to him.

  “You’re early.”

  “You’re kidding.” She twisted her body to look at the clock behind her. “I must have been running to try to keep warm.”

  Zelda made a maternal clucking noise as she set a cup of steaming coffee down in front of each of them.

  “He takes cream and sugar,” Monica said.

  “Does he now?”

  Before he could stop her, Zelda had taken his cup away.

  “Well,” Max said, trying to rally attention to himself. “Thank you all for being here so promptly this morning. And for making coffee.” This as she returned his drink, now two shades lighter. “If nobody objects, I’d like to open our meeting with a prayer.”

  “And if we do?” Monica said, looking at him over the rim of her cup.

  “Do you?”

  “Not really.” She set the cup down.

  Max took a deep breath, separating himself from their tug-of-war conversation. Praying out loud was not something he ever willingly embraced, but if he was to be in prayer for this endeavor, he wanted them all to know it. To hear it. He would not, however, command that everybody bow their heads and close their eyes, though he did as an example.

  “Heavenly Father, we gather this morning grateful for the opportunity to do your will in our work. We seek direction and guidance, especially me. Help me to see, always, the answers you have for my questions. And . . .”

  Words disappeared. Why it was that a man who had devoted so many hours to the study and perpetuation of eloquenc
e was unable to string together more than three well-crafted sentences, he’d never understand. But there, his heart pounding in anticipation of pursuing some new, great thing, knowing full well he’d never accomplish it without some divine intervention, all he could manage was a stammer in the darkness.

  “Tell us what to do, too.” It was Zelda’s voice, reaching out to him in a way that any touch to his hand never could.

  “Amen.” That was Monica, always—as he’d noticed—eager to end a prayer.

  He, too, said amen and waited for Tony and Zelda to finish making the sign of the cross before clearing his throat and opening his journal.

  “I’d like to begin this meeting with a few verses of Scripture.”

  Monica sighed, her eyes rolling so far to the backs of the sockets he feared they’d stick there. Tony, meanwhile, took out his pad, licked the tip of his pencil, and appeared poised to listen.

  “It’s a passage from the book of Philippians, chapter 4, verse 8.” He opened his Bible to the place he’d marked with one of the photographs taken from Uncle Edward’s safety-deposit box. It was, in fact, Edward, though only Monica would recognize him. Another secret shared.

  That’s when he knew he couldn’t start with Scripture. Using his finger to mark his place, he closed the Bible and held up the photograph.

  “This man, you should know, is Edward Moore. The date is 1885. Just after he finished college. Most of you can’t imagine him ever being that young. Neither can I. I always knew him as old, opinionated. But nobody’s born that way. I know Uncle Edward had joy—at this point in his life, anyway.” He held up the photograph, blocking his view of Zelda. “And I hope that joy continued into his later years, in secret pockets of his life.”

  He went silent for a moment, struck with the thought that he was only just now giving the kind of speech he should have given at the funeral. But then, today marked a different death.