Vixen (41 page)

Carlito Macharelli.

“You were friends with that redheaded singer. Your girl is in one fine mess with that colored boy. And so is her little tabloid-darling cousin.” He leaned forward into the light, and Lorraine could see him clearly for the first time. He didn’t look so good. Someone had hit him.

“She’s not my friend anymore. I don’t know anything about what she’s doing.” The words were sad, Lorraine thought, because they were true.

“That’s okay.” He took a revolver out of his coat, popped the cylinder, and calmly loaded it with bullets while he went on. “I know everything there is to know. I know that you came here alone. I know that your little friends think you were the one that squealed. And soon I’ll know where your ex-friend and her boy are holed up.”

The threatening tone of Carlito’s voice made her nervous.
“Can I have my fur back, please?” she said, trying to stand up.

His arm shot out, blocking her. “But let me tell you something you don’t know,” he said. He relaxed his arm, and Lorraine sank back onto the bench. “See, you’re actually sitting pretty.”

She was unsure what he was getting at. This was the Mob she was dealing with. What did they want with Gloria? Best to remain neutral, or at least inscrutable. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Exactly. You are exactly where you should be. Here with me.”

She looked him directly in the eye. “So, what’s your point?”

“My point is,” he said slowly, taking his time to light up another cigarette, the light throwing shadows across his face, “I believe our interests are very much aligned. We’re more alike than you think, Lorraine.”

Lorraine might have been at a low point, but she could hardly imagine how she and Carlito Macharelli had anything in common. She knew all the stories about Al Capone and his gang—this guy was dangerous.

“I hardly think so,” she said, tilting her head back ever so slightly.

Carlito looked amused. “No?”

Lorraine licked her lips—it was best to match confidence with confidence. “I’m much prettier than you are,” she said.

Carlito chuckled, then seemed so surprised that he’d actually laughed that he chuckled again. “I like you, girlie,” he said. “You got … sass.”

Lorraine was about to say thank you when two heavyset men lumbered up to the table. “Carlito, let’s go. We found ’em. We should get rolling.”

Found who?
Lorraine wondered.

Carlito snapped the cylinder back into place and dropped the gun into his coat pocket. “That’s the best thing that’s happened to me all night.” He put his hand on Lorraine’s. “No offense, peach, but I gotta run.”

“None taken,” Lorraine said. And then, on impulse, “When will I see you again?”

“I expect you’ll see me next week at the Green Mill.”

“Who says I’ll be at the Green Mill?” Lorraine asked. “I’m a busy girl, you know.”

Carlito smirked. The entire right side of his jaw was purple. “Not too busy to accept my help when I’m offering it. Which is rare. You got nothing right now, baby. But I’m gonna change that.” He leaned down, touching his lips gently to the side of her face.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Lorraine said with her eyes closed. Only a moment passed, but when she opened them, Carlito was already gone.

GLORIA

It was 7:53 p.m.

She didn’t feel like wearing a garter tonight. Her gold-beaded dress, cascading in waves of crystalline fringe, covered the intersection between her sheer stocking and bare thigh.

She slipped her right foot into one of her two-tone Mary Janes, her left foot into the other. The thin black straps went across her ankles, the silver buckles tightened with a pinch.

From the munitions strewn across her vanity, she carefully selected her weapons and placed them in a gold mesh evening bag: vamp-red kiss-proof lipstick, silver powder compact, tortoiseshell comb, ivory cigarette case.

She stared into the mirror. Everything was perfection: green eyes smoldering, cheekbones rouged and accented, lips
outlined and plumped. Tonight, even her skin shimmered with something almost magical.

As she dabbed a final drop of perfume into the crease where her shiny bob skimmed her neck, Gloria decided the garter would be necessary after all. Of course it would.

And then, before snapping her bag closed, she added the small black handgun.

Now she was ready.

A little more than an hour later, at 9:04 p.m., Gloria was parked outside Jerome’s apartment, her bag in the trunk. She was early.

She sat in the car in the dark, her heart beating like a wild bird in a too-small cage. She could just as easily turn the key in the ignition and drive back where she’d come from; her decision was not yet irreversible. She knew, though, that the second she opened the car door, her new life would begin.

Sneaking out of her house without saying goodbye to her mother? Leaving her engagement ring on her dresser? Stealing her mother’s car? Doing those things had been
easy
. So why was she finding it so difficult to get out of the car?

Jerome finally made the decision for her, by opening his front door and peering at her car. “Gloria?” he called.

She hurried up the steps to him.

“I worried you wouldn’t come,” he said.

She understood, staring at his face, his anxious eyes, that he wasn’t truly sure that
she
loved
him
. That she would risk everything for him. Leave Chicago. Leave her old life.

Well, he was wrong.

Jerome stepped back and stared at her for a moment, his hand to his chin.

Gloria felt suddenly naked. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing. You just look …”

“Sexy? Silly? Stupid?” Gloria blurted out, crossing her arms and trying to hide her shimmery dress.

Slowly, Jerome came forward until he was standing directly in front of her. He placed his hands on top of hers—they were big, his hands, and strong, and were filled with magic, Gloria thought—with music. She wanted those hands to play the piano just for her, to hold her for the rest of her life.

“I was going to say that you look like the genuine article. Not like that girl playing at dress-up,” Jerome said, the cool tone of his voice nearly making her swoon. “Gorgeous. Confident. Dangerous, even.” She thought about her purse, and what it held inside.

He set his hands on his hips. “Gloria Carmody, you are a true flapper.”

Gloria helped Jerome stuff dress shirts into his suitcase, piled jazz records into a steamer trunk, waited for him to put on his shoes and do the buckles.

She found herself touching her bare ring finger. Everything had happened so quickly. She didn’t even really know whether they’d be living together in New York—let alone whether they would be sleeping in the same bed. She didn’t know any couples who had lived together before they were married—it was virtually unheard of. Especially since they had never …

“What’s wrong?” Jerome gave Gloria’s shoulders a squeeze.

“Nothing!” she said, too quickly. She closed her eyes, trying to relax into his hands. “I’m just worried—about Carlito, about making the train, about New York City. All of it.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you this till we got to New York, but it looks like you could use a boost to your confidence. I’ve been talking to a buddy of mine who owns a jazz club up in Harlem. He’s opening up a new piano bar down in Greenwich Village, and he happens to be looking for an act to headline. And since he says I’ve been getting some buzz on the jazz scene, he’ll try me out.”

“Jerome! That’s unbelievable!” She couldn’t help throwing her arms around him. “A job! Already!”

“But the best part is still to come. I told him about you.”

“Me? Why?”

Jerome squeezed her hands. “I told him I knew this redheaded torch who had the voice of a songbird. And you know what he said? That a black pianist with a hot white chanteuse would be the talk of the town. He said that’s exactly what New York needs, something to spice up the nightlife and cause a stir.”

Gloria tackled him, pushing him onto the sofa and kissing him wildly. “We’re going to be just fine,” she said, pausing and resting her head on his chest. She could hear his heart beat, slow and steady and strong. “We’re going to be just fine.”

“Of course we are.” He rubbed small circles on her back. “I really wasn’t sure you’d come tonight. I got Vera coming by to drive me to the station in case you didn’t show.”

Gloria picked her head up. “Hey, if we’re going to do this together, you have to trust that I’m going to be there.”

“I know,” he said. “But part of me still feels guilty, like I’m taking you away from the life you should be living, from the easy life you deserve—”

“We are going to New York so we don’t have to feel ashamed about being together.”

“It’s not going to be all that different there,” he said. “People are still going to raise their eyebrows at a white girl with a colored boy. Still going to hate us for it.”

He was right, but she didn’t care. She kissed him. “I love you,” she whispered.

He kissed each of her eyelids. “I love you, too.”

She began to unbutton his shirt, slowly. “Gloria,” he said softly. “We gotta go. What are you—”

“No more words,” she said, unbuttoning the last button. “Just kiss me.”

So that was what he did.

And in the long moments that followed, it seemed as though the world beyond the cracked walls of the apartment dissolved and the midnight train would wait for them forever.

By 10:16, they were outside, packing the luggage into the car. It was dark. There were light flurries of snow in the air, and the crescent moon glowed dimly through a pale yellow veil of clouds. Jerome closed the trunk, and the hollow thump resounded down the silent street. “Ready to go?” Gloria asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever—” Jerome stopped, his mouth widening into an oval. “Shoot, I forgot something.”

“Can’t you leave it?” she said, looking at the watch on his wrist. “You already locked up the apartment, and we need to make sure—”

“This won’t take long, I promise,” he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Just wait right here.”

“Jerome!” she called after him, but he was already sprinting back up the stairs. He disappeared into the building.