Chapter 17 #2
“It’s a knockoff,” Bes says, souring my mood with those three words. “The original was established in Rome around ten years ago, called the Bal Tic Tac.”
He points at the jaunty bandleader, who’s gyrating to the rhythm of the new song.
“That’s Ugo Filipino, the artist behind this place. When the Bal Tic Tac was shut down in one of Mussolini’s first purity campaigns, the owner, Giacomo Balla, retired. But Ugo decided to move the club here. Now, it caters more to Italian tourists in the know.”
I watch Ugo with a greater curiosity. He sports a bright blue suit, a white fedora, white shoes, and an infectious grin.
Though the years have been unkind to him in the deep cuts of his laugh lines and the slight limp in his left leg when he glides across the stage, the man radiates with life.
Was he able to avoid getting drafted in the Great War, allowing him to keep his dream alive?
Or did all the carnage and death he endured on the battlefield spark a need for a celebration of life—only for Mussolini to come and take it away?
He found a way—art always does.
“How are you in the know if you’re a tourist?”
“Money and word of mouth.” Bes leans toward me and lowers his voice. “Only the most affluent youths of Italian society know of this place’s existence. The club’s benefactor, known only as The Maestro and who we came here to see tonight, has made certain of it.”
I watch the crowd and see he’s right. Not only are the patrons here dressed in fine clothes and glittering jewels, but they all appear to be around our age. So often in history, it’s the young who rebel publicly, relentlessly, while the old rebel quietly, cautiously—if at all.
The man who showed us our table materializes out of nowhere, purposefully glancing between Bes and I.
“The Maestro suggests you two take to the dance floor for the next song.”
Without waiting for a response, he bows and excuses himself once more, blending back into the crowd.
I fold my arms across my chest in defiance, inadvertently pushing my breasts together. “This isn’t like any club I’ve ever been to.”
Bes eyes me through his lenses, gaze sliding to my neck but no lower, jaw ticking. “Been to many clubs, have you?”
“I’ve been to my fair share, yes.” I gesture around us. “This is riotous to be sure, but I love black-and-tans. The music is far superior.”
I search the crowd again, seeing only a sea of olive-hued faces.
“And much more diverse.”
Bes’s gaze deepens. “It’s unfortunate we had to leave Cairo so soon. I could’ve shown you how diverse our nightlife can be.”
I pause, lips parting as my eyes narrow. Is Bes Belzoni coming on to me? How unlike him. He must feel comfortable enough here, more in his element, to let his guard down a little. Which is more than I can say for myself.
“For Christ’s sake, stop flirting—you heard the man.” Cec fumbles to find our upper arms with both hands before shoving us separately in the direction of the music. “Take to the dance floor. Be free.”
I slide to the edge of the booth but refuse to get up. “Why? Because this Maestro insists on it? If they say to eat, am I expected to stuff my face until I puke?”
My stomach betrays me by grumbling excitedly at the idea of eating, considering all I had for dinner was the one slice of pizza.
Cec laughs. “Wouldn’t that be a sight.”
“The Maestro isn’t giving us an option, exactly, and, clearly, they only want to talk to Cec,” Bes explains. “This may be how we get the information we came for.”
Well, when he puts it like that.
Bes gets to his feet gracefully and holds out his hand. “Dance with me?”
Imagining his arms around me again, my heart betrays me with a stuttered beat and my body warms. It’s not that I don’t want to dance with Bes; I haven’t danced in ages and miss it fiercely. And, God help me, I’m desperate to feel his arms around me again. It’s the principle of the thing.
I eye him suspiciously and remain solidly in the booth. “You dance, Bes?”
He nods. “Fairly well.”
“As if he gave himself any choice but to be the best at it,” Cec grumbles, barely audible over the music.
I stare at Bes’s hand, still hesitating. I just can’t shake the feeling I shouldn’t relax my inhibitions, not even when Bes thinks it’ll help.
Remember, you’re someone else tonight. Someone else who wants to gather my own intel as well. About the God Men, yes, but Arturo too. If we got in with his password, then more of his friends must be here.
“Tell me how you know that the Maestro has the information you seek?” I demand. “Are they truly another one of Arturo’s acquaintances?”
Surprise flashes across his face. “Now is neither the time, nor the place, for this discussion.”
“Then you can forget dancing with me,” I tell him, getting to my feet. “I’ll find my own partner.”
Without waiting for a response, I make for the dance floor, allowing the teeming crowd to swallow me up.
Half the people around me are already partnered up, but the other half sway separately to the music, a few even tap-dancing. Smiles light up their expressions—one spreads across my own face.
Not long after I enter the crowd, a gentleman around Cec’s height approaches me. Dark hair slicked back, brown eyes soft and attentive, he takes my hand and kisses it.
“Buonasera, signora,” he bids me, his voice deep. I flutter my lashes at him.
Even while a part of me wants to glance back to see if Bes is watching.
“Buonasera, signore,” I reply, leaning into him.
Luckily for me, he doesn’t attempt to converse with me in Italian.
Instead, he puts one hand around my waist and grasps my hand with the other.
We instantly fall into the Peabody, which is merely a faster version of the Foxtrot.
I wonder how he learned it, considering it’s an American dance.
But I forget all of that as he starts to spin me, our feet moving in perfect rhythm together.
I can’t help it: I smile, my chest lightening. God, I needed this moment of freedom. Even though I’m here for a purpose, this place is intoxicating and it’s having an effect on me. One moment of intemperance couldn’t hurt—
Out of the corner of my eye, I recognize what I could swear to be blonde hair and a black dress. My feet instantly stop moving, panic clawing up my throat. I peer desperately into the crowd. It can’t be Ingrid. How the hell did she find us?
My dance partner places a hand on my arm. “Stai bene?”
I shake my head but no words come out.
Searching the crowd again, though, I can’t find her. Did I imagine it?
The man draws me close again, turning me away from the spot. My chest heaves. I must have imagined it. Still, my pulse hammers away inside my head, quieting the world around me. I lean in and let my feet do all the work, my mind spinning.
Before I realize what’s happening, the man’s hand slowly reaches past the sink ties of my jumpsuit to my lower back, directly over the Amulet of Amun—
“Scusami,” another, familiar voice says behind me.
I turn to find Bes watching me intently. Then, his attention shifts to my unwitting dance partner.
The strange man tightens his arm around my waist. I stiffen at the contact.
“Posso aiutarti?” he asks Bes, tone biting.
Bes’s eyes narrow slightly, lips thinning into a line. “No, non puoi.”
Sensing that this conversation isn’t going well despite not being able to fully comprehend it, I attempt to step away from the man, feeling a little foolish for getting so carried away. “Grazie for the dance, signore.”
He yanks me back and I crash into his chest. I push against him but the one arm holding me to him doesn’t give an inch. Lord knows I’ve dealt with handsy men before, but his grip is too strong.
Bes strides up to his other side, fists clenched. “Non vuoi incrociarmi.”
The young man must see something in Bes’s expression because he lets me go. I stumble into Bes, who wraps an arm around me, gentler than the other man’s but still tight enough that I know he won’t let me go.
Throwing up a hand up in the air, the young man swears “Fottuti americani” before storming off.
My eyes flick up to meet Bes’s. The anger in his dark eyes and flared nostrils has yet to disappear.
“Why?” he grinds out, refusing to look at me.
Taking a step back, I cross my arms over my chest. “I wanted to see what I could find out on my own. Just because you won’t tell me what I want to know, doesn’t mean I can’t attempt to pry it from other sources.”
Someone shoulders him in the back, and he stumbles toward me, leaving little room between us once again. “It’s not that I won’t tell you, it’s—”
“That you can’t,” I cut him off. “Right.”
After a moment, his expression softens and he offers me his hand. “We should at least pretend to enjoy ourselves while we wait.”
I smile gently. “Oh, I plan to have a grand old time.”
Already looking for another partner, I turn from him—when his warm hand grasps my arm and spins me around, drawing me into him.
My other hand lands flat on his chest, my entire body pressing flush against his.
Gasping, I tip my head back to look him in the eye, finding determination in his expression as he peers down at me.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell me I’m being a fool, or that I was an idiot for trying to find out information on my own.
Instead, he slides his fingers up the arm he grabbed before taking my hand in his. He keeps his left arm close to his side, still favoring it. I suppose he hasn’t needed much use of it, but I’d nearly forgotten about the bullet wound altogether.
Just then, the band transitions into a song I recognize: It Don’t Mean a Thing.
The crowd erupts in fervorous excitement when the piano slides into the melody, electrifying the room as the tss from one of the cymbals on the drum set follows.
The bandleader, Ugo, flips around to face his audience, snapping his fingers and closing his eyes as he sings the first verse.