Speak Easy Page 5

  Back at home, I brushed my teeth and did some final primping in my bedroom mirror, thankful for the privacy while I practiced walking in my new heels. It took me a few tries to get the bow lips right, but I thought I had a reasonable imitation by the time I heard a knock on the front door.

  When he saw me, Joey’s eyebrows shot up. “Damn, Tiny. If I didn’t know it was you, I’d say you were beautiful.” He was wearing a dark brown suit, white shirt open at the collar, no tie or hat. The suit looked a bit worse for wear, but he’d tamed his hair and shaved, revealing clear skin and a strong jaw. My insides performed a funny little flip.

  “You’re a riot. But I’ll thank you to just keep quiet tonight.” I pulled the door shut behind me and walked to his car, a black Ford much like mine.

  “Don’t you want me to get the door for you?”

  I waved him off. “This isn’t a date, Joey. Just get in and drive. Do you know where we’re going?”

  He nodded and slid into the driver’s seat, stealing a glance at my legs before starting the car. I smoothed the dress over my thighs and pressed my knees together.

  Neither of us spoke on the way downtown.

  The block he parked on looked perfectly ordinary, lined with darkened sandwich and coffee shops, a florist, a shoe store, and a photography studio. Steam rose from grates on the cement, and the electric streetlights cast a yellowish glow.

  “Where’s the club?” I asked as we got out of the car.

  “Right over there, I think.” We walked down the street and he pointed to the florist’s door, which had the number 23 painted on it. “See that opening in the sidewalk? That’s a stairwell to the cellar, where the entrance is.”

  We descended the cement steps. At the foot of the staircase was a massive metal door, which Joey knocked on.

  No answer.

  He pounded a little harder.

  Nothing.

  I was about to tell him to forget it, this couldn’t be the place, when we heard a few clicking sounds, like the door was being unlocked from inside. I pushed it open, and we stepped inside a dark, closet-like space with a second door ahead of us.

  “That wasn’t so hard,” I said. But when the big metal door slammed behind us, we were trapped in the blackness. Immediately my heart began thudding, but within seconds, a tiny slot at eye level—well, more Joey’s eye level than mine—opened up.

  A pair of eyes appeared. “Yeah?”

  “Is this Club 23?” Joey asked.

  “Get lost.” The slot closed.

  “Angel sent me,” I said loudly. The slot opened again.

  “Who said that?”

  “Me. Down here.”

  The eyes found me and the voice attached to them laughed.

  “Listen, can we come in or not?” I asked irritably.

  “Sure, you can come in,” the voice said. “If Angel sent you, you’re in.” The door opened, and we were directed down a dark, low-ceilinged hallway with a red-tiled floor and black-painted cement walls toward the club’s main room. The music grew louder as we approached. At the end of the hall were two red velvet curtains, tied back on either side.

  My heart raced as I took in the club’s cozy underground opulence. The front third of the room was dominated by an elevated stage, where a dozen musicians shook the walls with a driving rhythm. The rectangular dance floor in front of it was two tiers lower than where I was standing and packed with dancers. Cocktail tables edged the floor, and crescent-shaped booths with plush red velvet seating rimmed the next two tiers. The walls were also lined with a few intimate, red-curtained booths, and the room was crowded with elegantly dressed men and women, many of them dancing or smoking, all of them drinking. The dark wood bar ran the length of the back wall, and the cocktails were served in real glasses, not mugs or teacups like I’d seen in other joints. White linen dressed the tables, and the waiters wore tuxedoes.

  A hostess seated us at a small cocktail table near the dance floor. Joey ordered a whisky and asked if I wanted one. “I’ll have Canadian Club. With ice.” In speakeasies it was important to order your poison by name—otherwise you couldn’t be sure what was in it. The hostess disappeared and we sat listening to the music for a few minutes, my eyes scanning the room for Angel or one of his sons.

  Our drinks arrived, and Joey handed the waitress some cash. She winked at him, and I didn’t blame her.

  I sipped my whisky. “Swell suit. Too bad you couldn’t afford a tie.”

  He took two big swallows and set down the glass with a clunk. “I don’t prefer neckties. And now, hard as it may be, I think you should tear your eyes from me and look over your shoulder. Is that Angel DiFiore watching you?”

  A spidery chill crawled up my back. I turned in my chair, and there he was, in a black tuxedo, raising a glass to me in a silent toast. He drank, set the glass down, and headed my way.

  I took a gulp of whisky. “Yes. That’s him.”

  Joey watched him approach with his chin lifted, eyes sharp.

  In a moment, Angel appeared at my side. “Miss O’Mara. What a pleasure to see you again, and how beautiful you look.” He offered his hand and I saw no choice but to take it. Turning to Joey, he said, “Angel DiFiore.”

  “Joe Lupo.”

  Angel held out his hand again but cocked his head at hearing Joey’s name. Did he recognize it? “Perhaps you will enjoy a cigar in the lounge behind that curtain, Mr. Lupo.” He took a cigar from inside his coat and handed it to Joey. “The Miss Detroit is excellent.” He signaled a goon on the room’s periphery. The goon nodded and pulled a black curtain aside, revealing a room beyond it from which pale blue smoke billowed.

  Joey took the cigar from Angel and looked at me. “You all right?”

  “Sure.” I swallowed my fear along with another mouthful of whisky. At least we were surrounded by a crowd.

  Joey stood, adjusted his coat, and disappeared behind the curtain. Angel gestured toward his seat. “May I?”

  “It’s your club.”

  He lowered himself to the chair, pulling a cigarette from a small gold case. A girl in a short-skirted Club 23 uniform rushed to light it. “Grazie. Allora, Signorina O’Mara,” he began, exhaling smoke. “Your coming here tonight tells me you are cooperative as well as lovely. A nice combination, I think.” His black eyes shone as he looked over my hair and clothing.

  I met his gaze but said nothing.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  Keeping my purse on my lap, I opened it up and removed the bills. Then I placed them on the table, covered them with my hand, and pushed them toward him.

  “Splendid,” he said, pocketing weeks of my hard work within seconds. “I should have come to you in the first place.” He tapped ashes from his cigarette into the small tray on the table. “So let’s talk business. I want five thousand dollars by Tuesday night.”

  My heart plummeted to my heels. “Tuesday night! That’s in three days—that’s impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible.”

  I clutched my purse tight. “I need more time.”

  “You don’t have it. Now, you can bring the cash here, or leave it up to me to find you.” He smiled as he stood. “But I believe you’ll prefer the first option. Until then, Miss O’Mara. I do hope you enjoy yourself this evening.” Placing the cigarette between his lips, he offered me his hand.

  I felt like spitting on it and bolting, but one glance beyond him reminded me of the men stationed at every doorway. When he was gone, I sat stiffly, unblinking. Hearing neither the crowd nor the music.

  Five grand. By Tuesday night. I closed my eyes.

  Deadline—the word took on a whole new meaning.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to find Enzo beside me, a drink in his hand. My traitorous heart thumped double time at the sight of him.

  “Good evening.” He lowered himself into the chair his father had just vacated, and I stared coldly, angry that his good looks were matched by his duplicity. He wore his usual three-piece
suit, dark blue tonight, with a light blue shirt and a deep red tie. His hair was brilliantined to a shine. Taking several swallows of whisky, I wondered about the scar on his cheekbone and hoped some girl had scratched him trying to gouge his eyeballs out.

  “How are you tonight, Miss O’Mara?”

  “As if you care.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  The gall of the man. “You pretended to be a customer, you spied on me, you followed me, and you broke into our boathouse.” Fuming, I leaned forward. “You kissed me.”

  “You kissed me, actually.”

  Heat flooded my face. “That’s not the point. You knew the whole time what your father was planning to do. It was a dirty trick.”

  He drank, looking at me over the rim of the glass, and set the glass down. “It’s a dirty business we’re in.”

  I put my hands on the table. “Listen, I’m no crook. I make an honest dollar supplying a harmless demand. What you’re doing is called extortion.”

  “Every racket’s legit when it’s all illegal. Don’t kid yourself that you’re above it.” My blood boiled harder as he took a Fatima from his case. “You’re a bootlegger, Tiny. You work the black market, and the black market has its own rules.” Pulling his silver lighter from his breast pocket, he lit the cigarette between his lips. “You follow them, no harm comes.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “No harm? That’s not what it looked like last night.”

  “Well, your father didn’t follow the rules, did he?” He took the Fatima from his mouth and exhaled. “But you’re a smart girl. You do what you’re supposed to, and I promise—no harm comes.”

  He promises. Ha. Just watching the smoke slip from his lips was enough to do me harm.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  I sat back. “No. I don’t.”

  “What can I do to convince you?”

  “I want to see my father.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Then let me talk to him.”

  He looked at me a moment before speaking. “Are you alone tonight?”

  Heat pooled at the center of me. “Does it matter?”

  “If we’re going to use the telephone, you’ll have to come upstairs with me. Alone.”

  At first, I wanted to tell him I wasn’t dumb enough to go anywhere alone with him. But then I remembered something my mother used to say. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. If my goal was to get them to give me more time to come up with the money, then perhaps I should play nice.

  But I should also play smart.

  “Just let me tell my friend where I’m going.” As I stood, Enzo’s hand shot out, gripping my forearm.

  “I’ll take care of that.” Without letting go, he got up and steered me toward the bar. When we reached the long counter running the back of the room, he released me. “Wait here.”

  As he walked away, I looked down at my arm—his fingers had left red marks that wound around my pale wrist like rope.

  It should have frightened me.

  Chapter Five

  For several minutes, I waited alone at the bar, shifting my weight from one foot to the other and rubbing my lips together. Was I screwy to go somewhere alone with Enzo? What would he say to Joey? How did he even know who Joey was? Had he been watching us?

  “Can I buy you a drink, doll?” said a voice to my left. The guy was blond, round-shouldered and burly, with pink pimply skin.

  “No, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.”

  “I’m someone.”

  “Just leave me alone.” I turned away from him.

  “You can’t come to Club 23 and be alone. At least let me get you a drink.”

  “Fine,” I said, mostly to get rid of him. He snapped to get the bartender’s attention while I kept my eyes on the crowd, watching for Enzo. In a moment, my pimply admirer tapped my shoulder and handed me an ominously clear martini. “Here ya go. Best juice in the house.”

  “Thanks.” I took it from him but didn’t drink.

  He lit a cigarette. “Your fella didn’t show yet, huh? He shouldn’t leave a pretty young thing like you unattended.” Leaning toward me, he exhaled in my face.

  I coughed and fanned the air between us. “Listen. I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve told you already to leave me alone.”

  He laughed again, an annoying little heh-heh-heh that sounded like my car when it wouldn’t start. “Why don’t ya get to know me before you give me the boot? Name’s Harry.”

  “Now I know you. I still want you to beat it.”

  “Not too friendly, are ya, kid?” Harry reached out and traced a line from my neck down one shoulder.

  Recoiling with a scowl, I threw my drink in his face. While he sputtered in shock, a hand came down on his arm and spun him around.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Enzo growled.

  Harry mopped his face with his sleeve. “Enzo. I didn’t realize.” He scowled at me before backing up and losing himself in the crowd.

  Enzo took the empty glass from my hand. “Can I get you another drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Between the whisky I’d imbibed at the table and the difficulty I had walking in these high heels, I was impaired enough. Not to mention the way Enzo’s dark eyes and slow smiles threw me off balance. I leaned against the bar for support. “Did you speak to my friend?”

  “It’s all taken care of.”

  I found it hard to believe Joey had let him off so easily. “What did he say?”

  “Oh, he threatened my general well-being, as well as some specific body parts, if any harm should come to you.” He took my arm, more gently this time, and led me around the bar. “I promised to return you to him in twenty minutes, unmolested.”

  Our eyes met. I was beginning to regret turning down a drink.

  He pushed open a door behind the bar, and we entered a room filled with crates, boxes and sacks of alcohol. “Is all this yours?” I asked, impressed.

  “Yes.” He guided me to the back and opened another door, which led into what looked like a tunnel.

  I hesitated before entering the dark, narrow space. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the quickest way to the office.”

  “Whose office?”

  “My father’s.”

  “Will he be there too?”

  Enzo looked at me sideways. “I’m a grown man, Tiny. My father doesn’t need to know everything I do.” He pulled me into the tunnel, closing the door behind us. Gasping at the complete darkness, I grabbed his arm.

  He laughed, and a second later, I heard the flick of his lighter. The little flame created a small sphere of light, illuminating his sculpted features from below. “Better?”

  No. You’re too handsome. And too close. “Yes.” I released his arm. Stepping gingerly on the balls of my feet, I walked beside him down the long, narrow passageway. The walls were raw planks of wood, and the ground was hard-packed dirt. Our footsteps made no sound. No one knows where I am.

  “So what’s your real name, anyway?” His tone was friendly and curious, as if we were out for an evening stroll in the park and not sneaking through a subterranean passage beneath an illegal club.

  “Uh, it’s Frances, but I’ve always been called Tiny.” Pay attention to your surroundings. Keep it friendly. “When I was born, I was so small I fit into a cigar box.”

  He chuckled again, chipping away at my antagonism. “Really?”

  I nodded as we veered left. Another tunnel snaked to the right. They must run beneath the entire building. “These tunnels must come in handy.”

  “Always good to have more than one way out these days. Do you supply any clubs?”

  “A few. Mostly Al Murphy’s places. But his speaks don’t have this kind of hidden access. I wish they did. It would make deliveries a lot easier.”

  “I imagine so. Watch your step here.” Enzo’s voice was steady as he took my arm, guiding me through a door into a narrow stairwell. From there I followed him up rough-hewn steps on shaky legs
, wishing there was a rail to hold onto.

  At the top of the stairs we emerged into a dimly lit wood-paneled hallway. “This way.” Enzo tugged my arm to the right. A quick look behind me revealed that the door we’d come through blended into the wall so well, I wasn’t sure I could find it again. At the end of the hall, Enzo unlocked a door and stood back so I could enter. He locked it again behind us, and my skin tingled when he brushed by me. A moment later, he switched on a lamp across the room.

  The office looked like any businessman’s—a large mahogany desk with two red leather chairs in front of it, thick gold velvet curtains over the windows, and a sideboard along the back wall functioning as a bar.

  “We’d best be quick about this.” He picked up the telephone on the desk.

  To my dismay, he spoke in Italian when the call was put through. I caught only a few words—ragazza, padre, parlare. When Vince was alive, he’d tried to teach me a few things, but I hadn’t paid close attention, a fact I now regretted.

  “Tiny?” Enzo held the phone out to me.

  My stomach tightened as I took the earpiece from him. I laid my purse on the desk and picked up the candlestick base. “Hello?”

  “Tiny. Is that you?” It was Daddy’s voice. I was sure of it, although it was weak and raw.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Willing myself not to dissolve into tears, I asked, “Are you all right?”

  Silence. “Yes. I’m sorry, Tiny—”

  “I’m taking care of everything, Daddy. I—”

  “Enough!” barked a new voice in my ear.

  “No! Put him back on,” I begged. I looked helplessly at Enzo, who took the phone and finished up the call in Italian.

  “Satisfied?” He set the phone down and raised his eyebrows at me.

  “I guess.” At least I knew Daddy was still alive, and conscious enough to speak on the phone. My job now was to get the money. But even if I sold the twelve cases I’d pick up tomorrow night, I’d need to sell seventeen more to come up with five grand by Tuesday. It couldn’t be done—I needed more time. But what leverage did I have to bargain with? I looked at Enzo, my mind and heart racing.