She quickly untied the bow and unwrapped the brown paper. At the hardback inside, she looked up in disbelief. “This was your mother’s.”
“And now it’s yours. You’ll see, the proof’s inside.”
Carefully she flipped open the cover, where Shan had inscribed Angelina Capello directly below the handwritten name of its original owner: Moira Keagan.
“But—I couldn’t possibly. It was her favorite. You told me so.”
“I don’t think she’ll be using it anytime soon.”
“Well, yes, I know, but—”
“Lina, it’s Sense and Sensibility. Trying to follow the insanity of how all those women think is enough to make my brain explode.”
There was some truth in this, and they both laughed.
Then she gazed back at the cover and gently stroked the lettering of the well-worn title. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she said.
Something in her tone told him she wasn’t referring only to tonight.
While he appreciated being valued, the comment also stressed the importance of her real brother’s presence. On a Friday evening, Shan could guess what was keeping him. Nick had started working at the Royal a year ago in the capacity of host—a glorified waiter in Mr. Capello’s view. Even so, the job held the key to his future, Nick claimed, and as such required long, late hours. A convenient excuse for rarely coming around.
“Here.” Shan handed Lina his plate before rising. “I’m gonna call and check on Nick.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Just eat my dumb cake. It’s good for the hips.”
She shot him a glare. But then a smile eased across her lips, warm with gratitude.
Shan threaded through the room, greeting guests as needed with hugs and pecks on cheeks. On the faces of fresh arrivals was a cold sheen from the early December night. Shoes glistened with slush.
He picked up the telephone on the entry table and held the receiver tight to his ear. Over the layered chatter of the party he asked the operator to connect him to the club. Shan had to repeat himself twice, and when he’d succeeded in placing the call, noise on the other end made it near impossible to communicate.
Just then, beside the phone, he glimpsed the small yellow pottery bowl made by Lina back in grade school. Shaped like a sunflower, it held the key to the Model T truck Mr. Capello had proudly purchased two years ago.
“You know what—never mind,” Shan said into the mouthpiece, having no idea if the person could hear. “I’ll be right there.”
22
Swooped velvet drapes still framed the entry to the main hall at the Royal, where patrons basked in the glow of candlelight and a large crystal chandelier. Shan recalled how the place had looked through the lens of a twelve-year-old’s eyes and figured it would be far less dazzling in reality and worsened by wear. But he was wrong. Max Trevino’s supper club was just as striking as ever.
“Excuse me, pal. You mind?”
Shan realized he was blocking the entry for a man and his date and moved aside.
The couple was suitably dressed for the occasion, sharp and glitzy like the rest of the room. All about, ladies flaunted more feathers and rouge than in years prior. Their short hairdos with ruler-straight bangs made a statement, but the exclamation lay in the low roll of their stockings, exposing bare thighs below fringe-covered dresses.
Up onstage, jazz musicians blared a snappy tune, and Shan’s memories came flooding back. The laughter, the applause, the bubbling champagne.
“I must be seein’ things.” The woman’s sultry voice registered instantly. “The Tommy Capello I know is too straitlaced for a joint like this.”
He smiled at Josie, a far cry from the gal he’d first known as the “coat check girl.” Her skin was still ivory and eyes halting green, but her platinum curls had been styled in a twist, save for a few escaping tendrils. She wore the long fitted dress of a hostess, purple satin with beaded trim and a slit up one leg. A dipped neckline outlined the shape of her breasts, accentuated by two straps over bare shoulders. He kept his gaze on her face.
“How’ve you been, Josie?”
“Can’t complain.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Four months. But who’s countin’?”
The last time they’d crossed paths, coincidentally, it had been the night of Nick’s birthday celebration thrown by his friends. Nick’s pursuit of Josie Penaro had taken years to achieve a courtship—one with the standard ups and downs. This much was apparent when she’d left the party early with tear-streaked cheeks.
“I’m just here to see Nick,” he told her.
She pouted her rosebud lips. “And here I thought you’d come to see me.”
When Shan struggled with how to respond, she giggled.
“Oh, I’m only teasin’. Come on, I’ll take ya.” She clasped his hand, her slender fingers in long white satin gloves, and led the way.
Couples in the center of the room hopped about to “The Charleston,” shimmying hips and hands and twirling strings of pearls. At the surrounding tables, guests toasted one another with teacups in place of glassware. Yet by the way they were swaying and tossing back their drinks, a façade of Lipton was clearly a precaution in the event of a raid.
As they passed the main bar, Shan noticed that the display lacked any evidence of liquor. Either the bartenders were hiding the bottles or patrons were bringing their own stashes. Neither one seemed practical.
“Where’s everybody getting the booze?” he asked Josie.
“Now you’re the one who’s teasin’.” A dimple formed on her cheek from the start of a smile, which disappeared when she realized he was serious. “From the drugstore downstairs, silly.”
“The drugstore?”
“For the pure alcohol.” His lack of knowledge clearly confounded her as they continued to walk. She lowered her voice only a touch. “They run it up the back stairs. It ain’t the cat’s pajamas, not like the bubbly stuff, but as you can see, no one out here seems to mind.”
He surveyed the room and saw the waiters pouring. Suddenly he felt terribly naïve. All those years Nick was making deliveries for the drugstore—no doubt to numerous destinations—he was indirectly working for Max. And Nick had never said a word.
Shan tried not to dwell on the thought of not being trusted. “That’s a lot of tea they’re drinking. Don’t the cops ask questions?”
“Not the smart ones,” she said.
Such exceptions, he supposed, weren’t confined to the Royal. While not all policemen ignored wine fermenting in Italian basements—Irish cops, in particular—those who understood it was part of the culture, like Officer Barsetti, had a habit of looking the other way.
“Max, darling.” Josie paused at a booth where a man sat alone with his cigar. She leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Look who wandered in.”
The last time Shan was here, Max Trevino had been parked at the same table. For an instant, it seemed only minutes had passed. But then a closer look revealed less hair on Max’s head, more graying at the temples, his face a bit heftier than before. He squinted his eyes. “Well, I’ll be. If it ain’t the wonder boy.”
Shan smiled and shook the man’s hand.
“How the hell you been, Tommy?”
“I’m well, sir. Thank you.”
“Sir? What’s this ‘sir’ stuff? Known you since you was a kid and you act like we just met.”
“Sorry, Max. Old habit.”
Max sat back with a slanted grin. “So. You want to get back in the business, huh? Finally recovered from the backstage treat I sent ya?”
It took Shan a moment to comprehend the reference. When he did, he attempted to conceal his shock. He had never put it together.
The unclothed fan who had once surprised him—and Mrs. Capello—in his dressing room had evidently been a gift.
“I think . . . I’m set for now,” Shan said, working to assemble his thoughts.
Max drew from his cigar and
exhaled a breath of smoke. “Yeah, well. You always were smarter than the rest of us.” Genuine approval shone in his eyes. “Here, have a seat. Tell me what I can do for you.”
Shan suddenly remembered Lina, who still had hopes of seeing her brother by night’s end. Remaining on his feet, he said, “Actually, I came looking for Nick. I was hoping to talk to him, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Nick, huh? Pretty busy night here. Is it something important?”
“It’s a family matter.” Respect for family had always ranked high on Max’s list.
Josie piped in, “Okay if I take him?” She tilted her head demurely, a nudge of persuasion.
Max puffed on his cigar some more. “Hell, I don’t see why not. Got no reason not to trust Tommy here. Ain’t that right, son?”
“Definitely, sir.”
Shan questioned what he had just agreed to.
“Then, let’s scoot.” Josie hooked his arm and whisked him away.
Soon they were entering the kitchen. Chefs and waiters wove in a frenzied routine with plates, pots, and pans. Peppery filets sizzled and cream sauces boiled. Colorful vegetables were sautéing in butter. Shan had to duck to avoid a collision with an oversize serving tray.
He started to wonder if Nick really was a waiter, as Mr. Capello had remarked, when Josie led him into a storage room. Behind the barrels stamped as flour, they proceeded down a narrow flight of stairs, a light bulb dangling overhead.
“Shortcut,” she explained as they landed before a metal wall. She gave it a knock and waved her fingers at a small hole. A scraping metal sound indicated the turn of a bolt and a portion of the wall slid open, a secret passageway.
“Thanks a million,” Josie said to the hulking Italian. The fellow used to guard the main door. “You remember Tommy? Nicky’s kid brother.”
The guy lifted his chin in the start of a nod, as if dropping it took too much effort. Then he reset the lock and assumed his post at another door to the right.
Josie smiled at Shan. “Right this way.” She towed him through a black curtain split down the center. What he found, down the rabbit hole, was a gambling hall in full action.
Flappers and men in pinstripes were huddled around tables of blackjack, craps, and roulette, the dealers in vests and bow ties. Cheers and laughter penetrated the haze from cigarettes. A far wall featured betting odds recorded in chalk, next to a table with several phones. Off to the side, a bartender prepared a tray of martinis and champagne for waitresses to distribute to patrons.
Patrons who were surely more appreciated than the ones in the front of the house.
“Not too shabby, huh?” Josie said, and laughed at his loss for words.
Gambling rooms and speakeasies had exploded since Prohibition. This much was common knowledge. He’d just never suspected both existed right here in this building.
“I guess Nicky didn’t tell you”—some of Josie’s words were lost in victorious squeals from a perky gal rolling craps—“he’s managing the place now.”
“Managing—the gambling?”
“Everything you see in here. Max offered him other spots before, at some of his smaller joints, but he held out. As you know, he always did want to be some bigwig around . . .”
When the sentence fell away, Shan followed her gaze to where Nick stood across the room. Dressed in a suit, hair smooth with tonic, he was speaking into the ear of a shapely brunette seated at a cocktail table in the corner. She tossed her head back in exaggerated laughter. Rolled stockings on her crossed legs advertised a lack of garters.
As though Nick could feel the heat of Josie’s stare, he turned his head and startled at his find. He said something to the seated woman before breaking away and approaching with a questioning smile.
“Surprise,” Josie said flatly.
Nick looked at Shan, tentative. “Max sent you back?”
“Yeah,” Shan said, just as Josie interjected.
“Apparently, he knows who he can trust.”
Nick expelled a sigh. “Josie. She’s a customer.”
“Of course she is. Which is why I’d better leave you to it. Wouldn’t want to distract you from your work.”
“Doll, c’mon. Don’t be like that.” He cupped her face to kiss her, but she pulled away and let his lips swipe her cheek.
“See you around, Tommy,” she said, and strode back the way she came.
Nick rolled his eyes and smiled at Shan. “Well? Whaddya think?” He angled his body, allowing a full view of the bustling room, the flowing booze, the cash trading hands. The large bundles suggested a clientele of high rollers. “Didn’t know the real party was back here, huh?”
Shan shook his head, feeling like “party” was an understatement.
“Took me years of working my way up. I’m managing the whole room, if you can believe it.”
“Yeah—I heard. From Josie.”
Nick appeared to recognize the implication of distrust. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, the rest of the family too. So you wouldn’t think I just wait tables.” He sounded so proud of the disclosure that Shan opted not to point out the obvious risks of the job.
“Congratulations. It’s great, Nick.”
“And to think, this all started when we snuck in the club way back when. You in that big ol’ suit.” Nick chuckled while tugging on his lapels, bringing attention to his current jacket of charcoal gray, no doubt silk and tailored to fit.
Just like back then, Shan suddenly felt inferior in comparison. Though they now stood eye to eye at five-nine, Nick still seemed taller somehow. Shan glimpsed his own fingernails, the grease he could never fully scrub away, and fisted his hands to hide them. Yet he sensed Nick had already noticed.
Shan cut to his purpose. “Any chance you could sneak out soon? Lina was hoping to see you tonight.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“The party. Her birthday?”
Nick groaned. “Shit. It slipped my mind.”
“It’s not too late. You could still make an appearance.”
“I wish I could. Really.” Nick didn’t sound quite sincere. Could he not imagine the hurt Lina would feel when Shan came back alone?
“Nick, it’s her sixteenth birthday. You’re supposed to be her older brother, for Christ’s sake.”
Nick’s jaw noticeably firmed, along with his eyes. “Well, unfortunately, I don’t have a schedule like yours. Can’t just step away whenever I get the itch.”
They both fell into silence, thick with tension that amassed too easily these days. But then Nick shook his head and lightened. “Ah, hell. You know me and these family things. I’m a disappointment whether I’m there or not.” An awkwardness of truth belied his levity.
A dealer raised a hand, as if on cue, beckoning Nick over.
“Listen, I gotta go. Tell Lina I’ll make it up to her, all right?” Not waiting for an answer, Nick started across the room. He didn’t even ask Shan to keep tonight’s revelations a secret. Evidently it was expected. After all, sharing such knowledge would compromise others.
And yet, only as Shan passed back through the curtain, where the doorman stared with unfeeling eyes, did he realize he hadn’t prevented the same for himself.
23
“Fai attenzione,” Mr. Capello said with clear impatience.
Shan glanced down at the man, still lying under the kitchen sink, his hand outstretched. “Sorry, Pop. What did you need?”
Mr. Capello grumbled. “Pipe wrench.”
Once again Shan had been gazing out the window, past the morning frost, debating how to broach the subject. He sifted through the metal toolbox on the counter and handed over the tool, which Mr. Capello took with a slight snap of his wrist.
“Why do you bother coming today?”
The question wasn’t necessarily rhetorical. A kitchen sink simply needed replacing in the Rigonis’ house over on Laurel Street. Nothing Mr. Capello couldn’t have done on his own. But Shan had insisted on joining, even donned h
is coveralls—a match to Mr. Capello’s—he just hadn’t brought himself to say why.
“Thought you might want some company.”
“You are not talking. How is this company?”
“Well . . . I didn’t say I’d be good company.”
Mr. Capello said nothing. He knew this typically wasn’t the case. On most jobs together they would discuss the latest news, from President Coolidge’s policies and rumors of coming strikes, to commentary on political races—less predictable now that women had the vote—and, as always, baseball. More aptly Tony Lazzeri. After Ping Bodie was traded, still a sore point for Mr. Capello, the rookie with the Yankees had become a beacon of hope.
Today, however, Shan’s concerns lay elsewhere. Sure, he was troubled by the risks and realities of Nick’s work, let alone his own predicament after a literal peek behind the curtain. But more than that, he was envious. Not over the riches and glamour, but over the self-sufficiency, the measurable achievements.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally. “Now that I’m nineteen and done with school, maybe I ought to . . . move out on my own.”
Mr. Capello ceased any movement. Then, in silence, he slowly resumed working on the new drain.
“I could still help the family, of course. I’d just get another job. Maybe find a roommate to split an apartment.” He waited for a reaction. “What do you think?”
“So, you want a different job also.”
Shan was referring to a second one, not a replacement, but now that the suggestion hung there, he couldn’t deny its appeal. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He had mixed feelings about performing for a living, but surely the wages would be higher, with so many customers paying Mr. Capello in trade. The homeowner today, for example, had offered a landscape painting of Genoa’s coastline crafted by his wife. Since Mr. Capello knew an art-collecting winemaker originally from that region, he’d agreed to the deal, planning to exchange the painting for some nice bottles of red.
Mr. Capello again went quiet, his face still obscured by the sink. The day Nick moved out, the culminating argument had revolved around ingratitude. Shan hoped this wouldn’t be viewed the same.
The Edge of Lost Page 13
