Ingenue Part 1

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 fashion 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.

Fashion 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 shift 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 ships 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.

Vera let herself relax against the crates, leaning out to check on Bastian. How could she have been so stupid as to ever trust him? Those eyes, she thought. When shead first met Bastian, his green eyes had seemed sincerea"swoony, even. Arrogant, of course, but that was to be expected from a rich white boy like him. She hadnat realized the heartless steel his irises really concealed until shead accused him of sending a man to kill Jerome and head just smiled and called her asilly, stupid Vera.a And in all honesty, that was exactly what she was.

Vera opened her purse and felt the comforting, cool metal of Bastianas pistol inside. Shead carried it often since shead found it at Gloriaas feet that night. Bastian certainly didnat know it was his own gun that had killed the gangster, that his own fiance had pulled the trigger.

Vera had never used a gun before, but if a dame like Gloria could use one, then so could she. Vera loved Jerome every bit as much as Gloria did, and would go just as far, if not further, to protect him.

She snapped the purse shut and looked back toward the docks.

Footsteps, approaching from the other side of the dockyard. The figure wore a long black overcoat and a hat with a wide brim. Vera watched the person walk down the pier.

aSebastian Grey?a Vera was shocked to hear the voice of a woman.

Bastian turned from the water. aI donat believe Iave had the pleasurea"a aSkip the formalities. Iam looking for Macharelli. And the piano player, Jerome Johnson.a aDo I look like their keeper?a Bastian breathed out a cloud of cigarette smoke, and then his face brightened. aYouare too pretty a woman to be chasing after trash like Carlito. But if you must know, he took off a minute ago.a The woman made a swift movement, and Bastian raised his hands in surrender. aWhere to?a she demanded. aAnd whereas the piano player?a aNo need for guns,a Bastian said, slowly backing up. aCarlito went home. And Johnson? No one knows where he disappeared to. He sent his kid sister a postcard from a post office box in New York, but thatas been a dead end so far.a aThank you,a the woman said. aYouave been most helpful.a Then Vera heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Two.

Instinctively, she cowered, knocking her heavy purse against the crates.

The killer turned at the noise, her features hidden by shadow. All Vera could see was the silver pistol, pointed directly at her.

The third gunshot in as many minutes rang out over Lake Michigan.

The bullet slammed into a wooden crate so close to her head that Vera felt splinters. .h.i.t her face. She didnat wait for another bullet. She just turned and ran.

It wasnat far to the edge of the dockyard, and the wall of crates was between Vera and the shooter. But Vera was wearing heels, and shead never been able to run in heels.

Until now.

She waited for the crack of the gunshot and the bullet in her back as she crossed the lot, as she turned and ran the block to Wallyas cab, as she banged on the window to wake him from his nap.

aWhatas the rumpus?a he said as she clambered into the backseat.

aDrive!a she said. aAs fast as you can.a Wally didnat need to be told twice. He turned the key, gunned the engine, and took off.

When he dropped her at the club, it was already locked up for the night, but that didnat slow her down: She fumbled through her purse, found Jeromeas old keys, and slipped the bra.s.s master into the lock.

Whoever the killer was, she wouldnat miss the next time.

All that had been hours ago.

Vera had made a pot of coffee. Shead sat down in a booth to try to figure out what to do next. And once shead been sure she was alone, shead cried. Shead cried for vile Bastian Grey, and for her brother, and for herself. She was only seventeen. She was supposed to be in school, not fleeing killers. Her mother had been dead for years, and if her father found out about the mess shead gotten herself into, it would probably kill him, too.

The only reason this place was a safe haven right now was that it was morning, much too early for anyonea"the band, the girls, the ownersa"to be there. That would change in a few hours. Vera needed to gather her things, figure out a plan, then scram.

But she couldnat stop shaking. Maybe she could wait just a little longer. Just until her nerves settled.

Then she stiffened in her seat: a jangle of keys outside the door. She needed to hide.

But by the time shead slid out of the booth, the door was already open.

aWhat are you doing here?a a manas voice exclaimed.

Veraas heart slowed. The voice wasnat the cool steel of a thugas, but warm, b.u.t.tery, and familiar: Evan. The trumpet player in the band and an old friend of Jeromeas.

Despite the early hour, Evan was already dressed for the day in a soft white dress shirt and brown slacks. He looked the slightest bit amused, thanks to the way his lips naturally turned up at the corners. His face was smoothly shaved, his cheeks and jaw incredibly angular. He removed his brown derby hat as he flicked on the light and walked into the room.

aWhat are you doing here?a Vera asked, shutting her purse. aWhat time is it, five in the morning?a aFive-thirty,a Evan replied. His eyes widened as he took in Veraas appearance. She was still wearing her sleeveless gold dress, though it was a wrinkled mess. Evan picked a splinter of wood out of her hair. aWhat happened to you, Vera?a He pointed at the booth. aTake a load off, girl.a He went behind the bar and ran the tap.

When he came back, he handed Vera a tall gla.s.s of water. She held it out in front of her: Her hand wasnat shaking.

aItas water,a Evan said. aItas for drinking.a Vera smiled for the first time that night and gulped down the entire thing.

aThank you.a She leaned back in the booth, feeling a bit more herself. aNow, I think you were just about to tell me why youare here about ten hours earlier than usual.a aYouare welcome,a Evan said. He sat down opposite her and ran a hand through his sleek dark haira"Vera could smell the Brilliantine. aTruth is, Vera, Iam taking off.a aYou were just going to ditch the band?a aAw, it ainat much of a band anymore. Tommyas been talking about joining up with a piano player at another club, and Bix never wants to practice. Without Jerome or a decent singer, this ainat a good gig anymore. I just came by to get my trumpet.a Vera couldnat help feeling hurt. Head been planning to leave without saying goodbye?

Evan reached out to pat her hand. aI was going to tell you. I just wanted to sneak my horn out of here early, before anyone was around. Or at least it was supposed to be before anyone was around.a He gave a wry grin. aNow, what are you doing here?a Before Vera knew what was happening, words started spilling out of her. She told him how she had betrayed Jerome and nearly cost him his life. How Bastian and Carlito had been lured to the docks, and how the killer had shot Bastian dead. And she told him how shead nearly caught a bullet herself. aAnd the woman asked about Jerome,a she said. aBastian knew about Jeromeas post office box in New York City. He knew Jerome had sent me a postcard.a aHe sent you a postcard?a aMonths ago. Ia"I carried it around like a dog with a bone. Someone must have gone through my purse when I was working. Someone must have tolda"a She swallowed heavily. aAnd now the killer knows heas in New York.a Evan reached over and tilted her chin upward, forcing her to look at him. aThat is not your fault. But donat you worrya"Iall help you sort this out.a She turned away from his hand. aIam dealing with it all right on my own.a Evan raised his eyebrows at her torn dress and dirty face. aYep, youare doing just fine.a Despite herself, Vera laughed, and then she stood. aIam gonna go clean myself up a bit.a She washed the grime off her face in the ladiesa room. Now shead gone and involved Evan. He was the one person besides her father she really cared about in Chicago, and shead repaid his friendship by putting his life in danger, too. In the dressing room at the end of the hall, she stuffed her makeup kit, red hairbrush, and silver clutch into a large black shoulder bag she found on the floor.

Then she looked at the clothes rack and winced.

She couldnat very well run away with only a bag full of sparkly flapper dresses. Still, she chose three of her favorites and packed them. And then, murmuring an apology, she swiped a few of a fellow cigarette girlas simple day dresses, including a pale yellow number that she slipped over her head. It was a little tight, but not in a bad way. Finally, she slipped her feet into a pair of black ballet slippers. With her T-strap heels packed in the bag, she slung it over her shoulder and said goodbye to this place.

She found Evan behind the bar. His beat-up trumpet case and a tan briefcase sat on the floor near the booth.

Two gla.s.ses of water sat on the table. Evan carried over a pair of plates from the bar and set them down. aIsnat that Bettyas?a he asked, glancing at her dress.

aNot anymore,a Vera replied as she sat down.

aFair enough,a Evan said, taking a seat. aI figured you might be hungry. Sorry itas not the greatest breakfasta"I worked with what was available.a Vera looked down. A ham and cheese sandwich. There was even a pickle next to it. Evan was kind as well as handsome. And unlike her, he remembered the importance of things like drinking water and eating regular meals.

She grabbed the sandwich and devoured it.

Evan cleared his throat. aSo, whatas the plan now? Send a note to Jerome?a Vera pushed the plate away. aThereas no time for a note. Somebodyas got to stop this woman.a She opened her bag and pulled out Bastianas gun. aIam going to New York.a Evan dropped his sandwich. aWhat the h.e.l.l are you doing with a gun, Vera?a She sighed. aLong story, and Iam not particularly in the mood to tell it.a aThen save it for the train ride to New York,a Evan said. aNo way am I letting my best friendas sister head into danger by herself. Iam coming with you.a GLORIA.

aExtra! Extra! Harry Houdini, King oa the Cuffs, will break out of a straitjacket right in Times Square!a A dark-haired boy offered a paper to Gloria with a hopeful look in his big brown eyes.

She smiled at the boy, at his dirty face. The fact that she couldnat spare him a penny or two made her heart ache. But there was a different ache Gloria had to deal with this Tuesday morninga"the growling in her stomach.

She wandered through the open-air market on First Avenue, pretending to shop. The large wooden pushcarts offered everything a fashionable New York City girl could desire: cloche hats in every shade from midnight blue to the palest rose, tiny silver compacts, endless tubes of lipstick. Soft silk stockings, along with the new artificial silk ones that, while cheaper, were still way out of Gloriaas price range.