Moonshine (2010)

by Johnson, Alaya

  “What a world-class bore,” she said, rolling her eyes in Bernard’s direction. “And that ghastly movie of his! His daddy’s a financier in Hollywood. Bernie thinks he’s handsome enough, but seems to have overlooked the fact that he can’t act.”

  I giggled. Was this my second glass of champagne? “Well, your rescue was well-timed. I think we can both be sure he is not a secret vampire mob boss.”

  “None of that gaggle of boys over there, either.”

  “And here I thought you were flirting shamelessly.”

  Lily smiled. “That, too.”

  “Well, where does that leave us?”

  She leaned against the wall, and adjusted the spaghetti-thin straps of her blue gown. “If he’s here, Rinaldo should be older. With the respectable, cultural-attaché, port and cigars crowd. So we talk, we flatter, we move on.”

  “Are you sure you’ll recognize the signs?”

  “If I see anyone at all suspicious, I’ll make sure you meet them.”

  “Right,” I said, eyeing my glass and seeing it was empty. “Let’s get to it.”

  “Wait, there’s something else. I met with a contact I’ve been cultivating for the past few days. Part of le grand exposé. Dore’s regular shoe-shine boy.” Lily looked like she’d just eaten a canary.

  “What kind of a vampire has a shoe-shine boy?” I asked.

  “This one, apparently. Before his untimely end, he was known for enjoying a certain standard of living. And it turns out that while this kid shined our sucker’s shoes, he overheard a few fascinating things.”

  I rested my head against the wall, as it was throbbing with excitement. “Does he know where Rinaldo—”

  She shook her head, cutting me off. “Sadly, the boy didn’t know anything about that. But he did hear Dore discussing some new ‘opportunity,’ a few weeks ago. Something he called a new ‘line of business’ opened up by some mysterious contact in Germany. Well, where have we heard that recently? Faust, of course. But Rinaldo didn’t discover Faust himself. It looks like someone, some very rich someone, bought the recipe and the means of production from the German, contacted Rinaldo—out of all the bootleggers and gin-runners in this city, might I add—and suggested they make a deal.”

  This just got deeper and deeper. “Well, who was it?” I whispered. “Who made the deal?”

  She shook her head. “The kid didn’t know. I don’t think Dore knew. But maybe the seller picked Rinaldo because he felt some kind of solidarity with him. Because he’s a sucker? Which might mean our seller is Other, too, but Dore never actually saw him.”

  “So it could mean anything.”

  “Welcome to journalism.”

  I sighed and Lily extended her elbow. “Well, time to be fabulous. Which entails not sitting by the refreshment table as though it’s your personal trough.”

  I glared, took her elbow and glided back into the thick of the party. The crowd had grown since we began our tête-à-tête, and I began to detect the social waves that always come over a party when someone important enters. It’s a certain quality of forced nonchalance, rapt attention masquerading as indifference. For a moment I wondered if the new arrival could be someone interesting—a musician like Benny Goodman or Josephine Baker—but I saw his utterly disappointing face soon enough: Jimmy Walker, living up to his name as the Night Mayor of New York, with his latest vaudeville floozy dangling off his arm.

  “Oh, damn,” Lily said. She tugged on my elbow. “Come on, we’ve got to hide you. Hopefully he’s on his way to a better party.”

  But I stayed stubbornly where I was. “How dare he?” I muttered, nearly overcome. Lily groaned and put her hand to her forehead.

  “Well, he dares. Mayors do that, you know.”

  “Bad ones, maybe. I bet you voted for him.”

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  Suddenly, Lily grew rigid. Beau Jimmy had spotted us. He gave a little wave and inclined his head. From this close, I could see that his bearcat was a favorite of the recent tabloids, a particularly voluptuous and vivacious member of the Ziegfeld girls. He left her in apparently breathless conversation with two other men and sauntered over to us.

  “I’m going to murder you,” Lily muttered under her breath, while keeping a perfect smile plastered on her face. “I’m going to murder you and dance on your corpse and not a jury in the world will convict me.”

  “Oh, why even go to trial? Just give Beau Jimmy a kiss.”

  “Torture,” she whispered, “then murder.”

  “Miss Harding, Miss Hollis. Politics must be jading me, because I have a hard time believing this meeting is a coincidence.” I was sure his charming smile was just as insincere as Lily’s, but it was at least more convincing. He had the rosy flush of the freshly inebriated, though he’d just arrived. Knowing our mayor, it was probably his third party of the night.

  “Oh, no,” Lily said, laughing, her voice at least an octave higher than normal. “It’s such a surprise—”

  “I can’t quite believe it, myself,” I interrupted, loudly. Lily gave my ankle a vicious thwack. “I expect you think your attentions are flattering?” In fact, I was starting to wonder. Why, after a dozen meetings on the steps of City Hall, had our estimable mayor chosen now to acknowledge my existence?

  I don’t know how I could tell, since I doubt a single muscle had moved in his practiced, insouciant smile, but I got the sudden impression that he was now genuinely interested. I had engaged the game. “How fascinating,” he said, his deep voice not precisely loud, but delib erately carrying. “What do you think attracted me first, Miss Hollis? Your witty chants at the sucker rallies? Are the shrill voices of your suffragettes like an aria to mine ears?”

  I sensed, not so much as heard, Lily’s silent wail beside me as she imagined her imminent social demise. I didn’t worry—I somehow doubted her place in society was as fragile as she liked to imagine.

  I smiled sweetly. “Oh, I see the trouble now. Of course. You’d never have passed those horrible laws if we’d just asked more politely. Perhaps we should have sung, is that it? You hear a little Gershwin and Faust’s approval goes to committee?”

  Around us, muffled laughter. Jimmy Walker narrowed his eyes, but his smile was broad and genuine. “You battle-axes? Hardly a Wagnerian chorus. Care to prove me wrong, Miss Hollis? I think someone told me you sang.”

  This suggestion was greeted with such enthusiasm by the crowd that I had only to clear my throat in sudden terror for all to construe it as agreement.

  “Arnold!” shouted our odious mayor. “Tell the band they’ve got an addition.”

  “Lily,” I whispered, frantic. “Wait, I don’t want to sing. Tell them to stop—”

  She just pursed her lips and took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. “Knock ’em dead, Zeph,” she said, pressing a flute into my hand.

  I only had time to glare at her before a laughing crowd carried me forward to the band. I gulped down the champagne.

  “Don’t worry,” said the piano player, near my elbow. “You’ll do fine.” I took a deep breath and he took the empty glass. “You remember me, right?” he said, looking hopeful. I took in his short stature and receding hairline for a blank moment. Then it came to me, then: the white piano player from Horace’s! I was overcome with relief.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure how this happened.”

  “Price of fame, I guess. You want to try ‘Tea for Two’? I’d say this party needs a little kick.”

  He was so clearly doing his best to put me at ease that I had to smile. At least he’d played with me before. Maybe this wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

  The drummer counted out the beat and suddenly I was facing the expectant party crowd, tipsy and nervous and determined to not make a complete ass of myself. I think I succeeded. At least, people clapped and the piano player nodded at me and Lily managed to say, “Not bad,” instead of the furious diatribe I’d expected. As for Beau Jimmy, he tipped his wineglass in my direct
ion and then acceded to the demands of his Ziegfeld girl, who seemed to want to attend another party.

  After my run-in with the mayor, I stuck to the refreshment table. Lily combed the crowd for likely prospects in our Rinaldo hunt. She quickly homed in on an older gentleman—balding, liver spots on his pate and puffing away on a monstrous Cuban cigar. Aside from an occasional cough, she seemed undeterred by the smoke. I could only admire her fortitude. And now that I headed over, I saw some faint hint of Other about him. Probably not vampire, but perhaps worth a shot.

  “Why, Lily,” I said, laughing like I was precariously inebriated, “you’ve been hogging his attentions all to yourself without so much as introducing me. How gauche!”

  As I expected, Mr. Cuban Cigar was delighted to make the acquaintance of another young, flatteringly curious girl. Lily gave me just one dirty look before turning the charm back on. I supposed she realized that I must have had a reason to barge in on her reconnaissance work. Mr. Cuban Cigar’s real name was Earl something-or-other, and he played around with stock options down on Wall Street. The sort of stultifyingly boring activity made electric to some people by the addition of very large Federal Reserve notes. His evening suit might as well have been made of sewn-together hundred-dollar bills: he’d made every other effort to broadcast his wealth. Even diamond cuff links, twice as large as those holding together the sleeves of the sucker I popped in the alley three nights ago. I looked him over very carefully and attempted to sniff while Lily spoke. Not a vampire. But something else . . . I noticed it, finally, when I pretended to lose my balance. He caught me and held me against him for a few moments longer than appropriate. Certainly long enough for me to see that the markings on his scalp weren’t liver spots, but stretch marks. And if I glanced down his starched, high collar, I could see that they covered the rest of his body, as well. A skinwalker. Do it long enough and the physical effects are just as obvious as chronic drinking.

  And occasionally just as debilitating. In the modern era, skinwalkers could either be born with their abilities or acquire them through highly immoral means. And in the latter case, they tended to be as sensitive to sunlight and alcohol as any vampire. Was it possible that everyone had mistaken Rinaldo for a vampire, when really he was just something Other?

  “Oh, Lily, look!” I cried, stumbling forward. “It’s dear Arnold! We really must say hello. Plea sure to meet you,” I shouted over my shoulder. He looked bemused, so I blew him a kiss. There, that ought to do it. Now, the only problem with faking drunk loudly is that you can’t suddenly turn sober again. And rich men, apparently, adore drunk women. It took us almost an hour to get out of the party and back on the streets, where we could finally speak.

  “So that man with the stinky cigar really was a vampire?” Lily asked in a low voice. There was no need on the silent streets, but I understood her caution.

  I shook my head and explained my theory about the similarities between the physical effects of long-term vampirism and skinwalking. “But it’s possible our informants just don’t know enough to tell the difference.”

  She looked thoughtful. “And Rinaldo doesn’t bother to disabuse them? I suppose it could be useful, being able to turn into any other person you like.”

  “Not any other person. Even the old Indian shamans can only change into a few different shapes. Mostly animals. But you’re right, if you don’t know your boss can change shapes, he has a lot more power over you.”

  “If this is true, he could be anyone! That shape at the party could be fake, too. How would we know?”

  I shivered. “Slow down, I don’t know if he was Rinaldo, just that he’s an Other. We’ll just keep the skinwalker angle in mind. You research Earl what’s-his-name, I’ll pump my contact for more information, and we’ll meet tomorrow. Deal?”

  Lily nodded. “You know, it’s strange. I’ve been wondering why no one wants the Other beat, lately. I’m the one getting all the scoops. It’s like . . . like Others are the connective tissue of the entire city, really. More than politics and crime and certainly more than celebrity gossip. And they just hand it to me, like it’s nothing at all.”

  We kept walking, though a cab occasionally drove past. “No one wants to deal with it,” I said. “Newspapers are elite institutions. Well, yours is, anyway. Doing real reporting on Others exposes their failures like nothing else. There’s so much corruption and neglect . . .” I looked at her, my breath fogging the air between us. She seemed oddly pensive, as though she were taking my words seriously for the first time. “Faust is their kind of story. But the other side? The suicides and staked children and crowded tenements? They won’t want those. I’m giving you Faust and Rinaldo, Lily. But give me something for it, too. Write some stories you folks don’t like to read.”

  Lily gripped her elbows and leaned back suddenly against the corner of a building. “That woman, that vampire with the silver bullet . . . my God, how does she live like that? That endless threat. I went to Exeter, you know. And they taught us that suckers were evil people who had given their immortal souls for eternal life on earth. They chose depravity and it was therefore our Christian duty to persecute them for it. But she didn’t choose anything, did she?”

  I didn’t respond. For all her faults, Lily was an excellent reporter. She observed, instead of just grafting her own expectations onto events. She dug beneath the surface. Enough of that, and no matter what sort of drivel she’d been raised with, she would understand the living night-mare that gripped so many people in this city. It was happening already. In some ways, I felt sorry for her. It was hard knowledge to live with, and even harder to experience every day.

  “Zeph . . . what do you know about Amir?”

  I stumbled a little. “What, still interested?”

  She shook her head slowly, for once not rising to my bait. “Oh, he’s hit on all sixes, I won’t argue that. It’s just . . . we never really know Others, do we?”

  “Lily, that sounds remarkably close to the prejudice you just got through telling me might be wrong.”

  She glared at me, which was an odd sort of relief. “Listen, I never said I thought he shouldn’t be allowed in the Roosevelt tea room. And maybe you’re right, and that Vampire woman should get a vote and decent wages. That still doesn’t mean they aren’t different, that you can understand them like we understand each other.”

  “Oh, so now we understand each other?”

  She pushed herself off the wall. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. Never mind. I knew you wouldn’t listen.”

  I stared after her for a moment and then staggered to catch up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aileen and I ate breakfast in the parlor with a few other girls who were all hurrying out. I hardly tasted Mrs. Brodsky’s infamously weak coffee and Katya’s thick oat porridge. Mrs. Brodsky hovered like the proverbial hen, yelling with extra vigor at the latecomers running down the stairs.

  “Go! Hurry! You think you keep your job if you don’t show up! I expect my girls to pay. This is not a charitable establishment!”

  Aileen widened her eyes. “I’m glad she cleared that one up.”

  “Oh, but don’t forget Mr. Brodsky. She’s the soul of giving to that man. I should know, since she gives it right above us.”

  We burst into laughter, earning me a sharp look from our proprietress. After we’d subsided back to our food and morning exhaustion, I wondered about the changes in Aileen. She looked so harried and tense. The night before she’d awoken in the middle of the night, screaming. A nightmare, she’d told me, but I wondered.

  “How was work yesterday?” I asked to fill the silence. “Read any interesting tidbits in your novels?”

  She put down her empty coffee cup and picked up the porridge. “I quit, actually.”

  “You . . .”

  “Quit. I had a vision in the middle of the floor. Fell off my chair and started yelling and screaming. Thought I saw a whole army of suckers marching through the factory. Boss told me to go home and rest, but
I just quit. No sense in working there anymore. Not after this.”

  “What are you going to do? Mrs. Brodsky might kick you out, Aileen, and I barely scrape up the rent each month myself.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, Zeph, of course I’d never ask you to put me up. Don’t worry. I already made a bit of lettuce.” She reached into her pocket and dumped a pile of change onto the table. “Four dollars,” she said quietly. “Just from four hours telling fortunes on Skid Row. If I’d known penny bangles and gypsy earrings would get me so much, I’d’ve quit ages ago.”

  I held her hand impulsively. “Fortunes? Did you tell real ones?”

  “You know, that’s the funny thing. I didn’t mean to, but when I started I found that I would sometimes get real glimpses. I saw a woman die, but I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell most of them. But now the visions feel more . . . controlled. Like if I focus the power, there’s less chance of it sneaking up on me. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  I’ll help you, I wanted to say, I’ll make this better somehow, I’ll give you back your old ersatz vamp life, your twopenny romances, your casual flings, I won’t let this ruin everything. But instead, what came out was, “Why can’t you just go dancing like the rest of us?”

  Charlie found me in the cramped back offices of the Citizen’s Council, where I was poring over the financial records in anticipation of our tax filing. Since they kept me on retainer, I had to do any odd jobs they asked of me. I was not precisely a genius with figures, but apparently a significant improvement over anyone else available on such a small salary.

  “Heya, Zephyr,” he said, almost shyly. I hadn’t heard him come in, and had to cover my shriek with a cough. The presence of such a young vampire, with such an ugly reputation, in such a small room was less than reassuring.

  “Charlie! What . . .”

  “It’s Nick,” he said, scraping his shoe listlessly in a pocket of cracked marble. “Said he wants you early.”

  Well, damn. I’d been planning to see Amir before tutoring Nicholas, in the hope that he’d found any clues in those maps, or learned anymore from Judah. Daddy and Troy weren’t going to give me much more time, and I needed to be armed with information before I spied on Nicholas again.