Part 1 (1/2)
Ingenue.
Jillian Larkin.
For my parents.
If you hadnat given me the courage to take New York by storm, Gloria, Lorraine, Vera, and Clara never wouldave gotten the chance.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
The 1920s were all about independence, but writing about the 1920s would be impossible without a whole lot of fantastic support. Thank you to Ted Malawer and Michael Stearns at the Inkhouse for your keen eyes and even keener senses of humor. And thanks to Wendy Loggia, Beverly Horowitz, Krista Vitola, Barbara Perris, Trish Parcell, and everyone at Delacorte Press and Random House Childrenas Books for making what could be hard work fizzy and fun. My special thanks to Meg OaBrien and Emily Pourciaua”my publicity extraordinaires, who could pull off bobs far better than I ever could. Thank you to my mother for being the best first reader I could ever ask for, and to Daniel DaVeiga for your support, insight, and tolerance of a constant soundtrack of Bessie, Duke, and Louis in our apartment this summer.
Money.
It was worth so much, but weighed so little.
She placed the satchel on the table, opened it with a soft click, and flipped back the top. It was filled with dozens upon dozens of thin, green bills, rubber-banded in fat stacks. Hundreds.
Then she picked up the list. Three names, all practically kids: Sebastian Grey, Carlito Macharelli, and Jerome Johnson.
She reached for her gun. It was an automatic shead bought in downtown Chicago specifically for this job. Once she was done, shead lose it somewhere. It was a .38, a good gun to kill with.
She unwrapped it and worked the slide, made sure all the parts were clean and functioning. It smelled of oil and cordite and had a rea.s.suring weight in her hand. Effortlessly she snapped one bullet after another into the chamber.
There was a fas.h.i.+on among the younger people she knew for revolvers, but shead never been comfortable with the turn of the cylinder. And besides, the problem with letting young people into the business was that they made messes. But that was why she always had worka”no one liked to clean up messes. So they always had to hire a cleaner.
She slid the gun into its holster and the list into her pocket.
Now she was ready. Or almost: First she had to wash her hands.
She hated being dirty.
FOOLS IN LOVE.
aI hope sheall be a foola”.
thatas the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.a
a”Daisy Buchanan, in F. Scott Fitzgeraldas The Great Gatsby.
VERA.
Fas.h.i.+on kills.
Crouching for long periods of time was never fun, but doing it in patent-leather T-strap heels was murder. Vera usually tried to wear more comfortable shoes when she was following someone, but theread been no time to change. Shead been working at the Green Mill when shead overheard Carlito Macharelli mention a meeting on the docks with Sebastian Grey.
Shead immediately called a cab.
aFollow that car!a shead ordered the driver.
A normal cabbie would never put himself at her disposal for this sort of activitya”a black girl? Telling a cabdriver to follow a wealthy white man?a”but Wally was not a normal cabbie. He was that rarity: a black man with his own taxi and license. He was a family friend and happy to help her clear her brotheras name. aJerome is like the son I wish Iad never had,a Wally liked to say. Most nights, he waited outside the Green Mill until she was done with her s.h.i.+ft to take her home.
Tonight they followed the taillights of Carlitoas Rolls-Royce all the way through downtown and to the docksa”a place Vera usually avoided. This area was dangerous. Vera already worked in a Mob-run speakeasy; she didnat need the added threat of being around when the gangsters unloaded the hooch.
She asked Wally to let her out a block behind where Carlito parked the Rolls in the vacant lot. The hulking shadows of s.h.i.+ps loomed to the east, but here the docks were still and silent.
Vera edged close to the Rolls, dodging from shadow to shadow until at last she found a hiding place behind a stack of tied-up crates. Already, there was Bastian Greya”she could see his smug features as he lit a b.u.t.t from his silver cigarette case. He ambled out on the pier and stood smoking, staring out at the water.
She was sweltering on this warm summer night, thanks to her black, knee-length trench coat, but Bastian looked at ease in the heat, irritatingly handsome in a brown suit, his cheeks freshly shaven, his dark hair slicked back and parted. He was a looker, that much Vera couldnat deny.
aWhat do you want?a Carlito called out as he walked up, the lights from the pier warehouse catching his gray pin-striped suit and black fedora.
Carlito was her boss and had once employed her brother, Jerome, as the piano player at the Green Mill. But then Carlito and Tony Pach.e.l.li, one of his goons, had tried to kill Jerome. And Gloria, Bastianas high-society fiance, had shot Tony dead. And then Gloria and Veraas brother had had to flee Chicago to save their lives.
And it was all Veraas fault.
Vera had been the one feeding Bastian information about Jerome and Gloria. Vera had been the one determined to break up their secret affair. Just because Vera hadnat known that Bastian was telling everything to Carlito didnat mean she was any less guilty.
That was why Vera was here, crouched behind a stack of crates, hoping to learn something incriminating about Carlito and Bastiana”something she could use to barter for her brotheras life.
aWhat do I want?a Bastian flipped his cigarette in a bright arc across the lot. aYouare the one who told me to meet you here.a Carlito stepped backward. aNo, I didnat.a aSecret notes and midnight meetings.a Bastian walked a few steps away. aIam tired of your little games, Macharelli.a Only a young man as despicable as Bastian Grey could work with mobsters and show a proud distaste for them at the same time.
aThis isnat a game,a Carlito said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. aAnd I didnat send you a note. That means someone else did.a aDonat be absurd,a Bastian said, lighting another cigarette. aWhy would anyone go to the trouble of dragging us out here?a Vera was leaning forward to hear better when she felt a hand crawl over her mouth. aWhat are you playing at?a a womanas voice whispered.
She wanted to struggle against the strangeras hold, but she couldnat give herself away. She felt herself being turned around to face her attacker.
Vera stared into the eyes of Maude Cortineau, Carlitoas moll. When Maude had been a flapper, shead barely paid attention to anyone outside her glamorous inner circle. Since shead gotten with Carlito, she stuck to his side and spoke only when she was spoken to.
aIam trying to eavesdrop,a Vera whispered back. If Maude had been planning to bust her, she wouldave done it already.
aShut up, Vera,a Maude hissed. aI was waiting in the car, and I saw you running around behind these crates like you didnat have a care in the world. If Carlito sees you, youare in deep trouble. Donat be an idiot. You donat want to end up like me.a After dropping out of her bluenose prep school, Maude had become the queen of the Chicago flapper scene. Sequins, feathers, gold lama”she wore it all. Her makeup was always flawless and her headband always settled perfectly over her blond bob.
But now her beaded red dress hung over her bony body like a burlap sack. Deep shadows lurked underneath her kohl-rimmed eyes. Carlito had sucked the life out of her: The flame that Maude had once been famous for had been snuffed out.
aMaude! Where the h.e.l.l are you?a Carlito called from the other side of the crates.
aJust be smart and hide,a Maude said, clacking away in her heels, back to Carlitoas Rolls. Carlito was pacing by the car as Maude ambled up, smoking a cigarette. She was the perfect portrait of boredom.
Carlito banged his fist on the hood. aI told you to stay in the car!a Maude dropped the practically new cigarette. aI wanted a ciggy,a she replied in a soft, defeated voice. aI know how you donat like anyone to smoke in your car, Daddy.a aGet in,a he said. aWe gotta go, and fast. This is a setup.a aYouare being silly, Macharelli!a Bastian shouted. aNo one is after us!a But Carlito ignored him. He slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and sped off with a squeal of tires.