Chapter 10 #2
A two-door Cadillac Coupe waited for her in the driveway. The passenger side door opened, and Patrice climbed out. She waved and sprang the seat forward so Fern could climb in the back. Her feet slowed. Two other women were already in the back seat.
“You look glam, Fern!” Patrice said, her voice bubbly. Fern squinted against the headlights and saw a man behind the wheel. He lowered his head, tucking his chin so he could watch her approach.
“Thanks for picking me up,” she said. The two women in the back slid over to make room. Both angled their heads to see her.
“Oh, this is Gloria and Sarah. Get in, and I’ll introduce you to Stephen,” Patrice said, her voice lowering as she leaned close to Fern’s ear. “He’s a fox, isn’t he?”
She smiled as she slid into the back seat. Patrice popped the seat back into place and jumped in the front. Perfume filled Fern’s nose as the two women beside her leaned forward.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Fern.”
“We know,” the one at the window said. She propped her elbow on her knee and leaned her chin to her hand as she stared at her. “You know what? Patrice was right. Your scars are not all that bad.”
“Sarah!” Patrice shrieked, whipping around to glare at her friend.
A trail of fire breathed up Fern’s back, but it quickly tamped out as her mind absorbed what Sarah had said. Not all that bad? Patrice had said that?
The driver, Stephen, backed out into the road and started up toward Midway Gardens.
“Oh, stuff it, Patrice, you’re the one who said it,” Sarah replied, laughing.
“I’m Gloria,” the woman in the middle said to Fern, holding out her hand. She took it, regretting her clammy palm. “Don’t mind Sarah. She’s a bitch most of the time.”
“And yet we still invite her everywhere,” Patrice added, facing forward again.
“Only ‘cause we can’t shake her,” Stephen said, glancing back at them.
Sarah laughed harder and reached forward to slap the side of his head.
Fern’s shoulders softened as the three of them continued to bicker. They enjoyed ribbing one another, and instead of getting angry, they just laughed and screeched with pretend insult. Like a fly on the wall, Fern observed them. Patrice soon shifted in her seat and peered back at her.
“So, Fern, you agree with me that Buchanan is a total wolf, and Sarah should stay away from him, right?”
“Patrice!” Sarah groaned.
“Fern, tell her,” her cousin pressed.
Fern parted her lips, surprised. “You like my brother?”
Sarah giggled. “He’s a dreamboat.”
“He’s awful,” Fern replied, to which Patrice threw up her hands and said, “See! I told you. Guard yourself, Sarah. Be smart.”
“I don’t care if he’s taken half the girls in this city to bed, Buchanan Adair will never look at another woman after me.
” Sarah winked and crossed her legs, and Fern’s dinner roiled at the base of her esophagus.
She must have made a sour face because all three women burst into laughter. Even Stephen shook his head, grinning.
The rest of the ride passed in a blur of gossip and laughter.
Fern wasn’t paying attention to where they were going the way she’d tried to do when Vinny had been driving to the Lion’s Den.
When Stephen finally pulled to the curb and told them to get out, and that he’d meet them after he’d parked somewhere, Fern emerged onto a sidewalk, into a cloud of cigarette smoke.
With a surge of relief, she didn’t see Mama Rosa’s triple-decker.
They were on a different street. Of course, they were.
It wasn’t as if the Lion’s Den was the only speakeasy in the city.
There had to be hundreds of them. Perhaps even thousands.
Gloria, Sarah, and Patrice shook their dresses out and primped on the sidewalk, all three of them lighting cigarettes in long holders, so their fingers wouldn’t touch the cigarette itself.
Patrice eyed Fern’s hand. “You want a smoke?”
An image of Cal, flipping open his silver cigarette case, then lighting the tip of her cigarette, flickered into the front of her mind, then extinguished.
She shook her head; it would only make her feel ill.
The four of them started along the sidewalk, Sarah leading the way.
She was tall and willowy, with a wide, silver satin ribbon tied around her short, black bob.
She was incredibly stylish, and even though both Gloria and Patrice were prettier than Sarah, she was the one who caught the eyes of several men as they passed by.
A few older gentlemen whistled appreciatively, to which Sarah laughed. “You wish, Father Time!”
They pantomimed being shot in the heart. “Who says that whistle was for you, dollface? I was lookin’ at your friends,” one called back.
Fern turned her head, angling it away from the men.
Patrice hooked her arm through Fern’s. “Don’t do that. Chin up.”
She was embarrassed that her cousin had noticed. “It’s not that easy.”
“Neither was calling me earlier today.” She squeezed Fern’s arm. “Your eye doesn’t look too bad either. Who smacked you anyway?”
“Oh, well, I…” She’d forgotten about her eye until then; the makeup must have rubbed off a little.
“Tell me it wasn’t Cousin Buck,” Patrice said, looking scandalized.
“Buchanan? No.” She didn’t want to tell her that it had been her father. “I just got caught up with a bad guy.”
Patrice lifted one penciled brow, eyeing Fern as if in a new light. “Well, forget that dunderhead. You’re with us now. Come on.”
Sarah turned into a dark, slim alleyway.
If it hadn’t been for Patrice hooked at her side, she might not have followed.
Trash cans lined the alley, and the smell was nearly overwhelming.
The humidity and the sun had to have baked whatever was in the metal cans all day.
She held her breath as Sarah stopped farther down the alley and knocked on a door.
Like at Mama Rosa’s, a narrow slot in the door slid open.
“Fish scales,” Sarah said. The peephole shuttered, and Sarah tossed them a victorious grin over her shoulder. She was the first to saunter inside as soon as the door swung open.
It was nothing like the Lion’s Den. Instead of walking into a home, then down into a glitzy and vast restaurant, it felt like they were entering the warm, wet mouth of a beast. A single, red bulb overhead cast fiendish light upon scores of leaflets, advertisements, and circulars plastered to the walls of a short hallway.
The man who let them in gestured toward a metal door at the end of the hallway.
Muffled music and voices came from beyond it.
“Enjoy your evening, ladies,” he said, and again, Sarah led the way.
She pushed open the door and entered a dark, smoky room, packed to the gills.
Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling instead of crystal chandeliers; the tables weren’t dressed, and none of them matched.
Neither did the chairs: Some were folding seats, others fine cane-back chairs.
There were quite a few sofas and armchairs scattered around the place as well.
Men and women drank martinis and champagne in the thick haze of cigarette smoke, the low clamor of their voices drowned by a brass band playing in the corner of what looked like a repurposed factory floor.
Like at the Lion’s Den, there were patrons of all different classes and races mingling together.
It seemed that far from judging eyes, no one cared about those differences.
“That’s Benny,” Patrice said into Fern’s ear, pointing toward the bass player on the corner stage. “Gloria’s man.”
He caught sight of them weaving toward the only empty table and winked at Gloria, whose fingers danced in a flirtatious wave.
“Her mother doesn’t know,” Patrice said as they took their chairs. Then added, “For obvious reasons.”
Benny and the rest of his band were African American, and given Gloria was white, Fern could imagine her mother’s reaction to the news. If she was anything like Mrs. Adair, Fern envisioned fainting spells and hysterics.
Sarah had gone to the bar and now rejoined them, saying she’d ordered them all Gin Rickeys.
Heads turned in their direction, though none really had until Sarah’s return.
They were eyeing up her, not Fern or her scars.
With the lighting in the room dim, she settled back into her chair, crossing her legs, and paid attention to the band.
Their music was easy and breathy, with a few low wails of a trumpet and cymbal rasps.
The melody worked under her skin as the four of them waited for their drinks and Stephen to arrive.
Patrice had put her feet up on the seat next to her so no one would take it.
The waitress brought the Gin Rickeys, and they’d barely lifted the glasses to their lips when Stephen appeared at Patrice’s shoulder. He leaned down to smack a kiss on her neck, and she jumped, splashing her drink.
“You boob!” she screeched. But before Stephen could take the chair she’d been holding for him, another man slid into it.
“Hey! Look here, bub, that seat’s—” Patrice went quiet as the man tipped up the brim of his hat.
Fern choked on the first sip of gin and soda rushing down her throat. Her eyes burned with tears as Rodney Rosetti stared at her. His mouth curled into a mean smirk. He lounged back in the seat, crossing one leg over his opposite thigh.
“Hello there, dollface.” Two other men came to stand close behind him. One of them was Francis.
Fern set her glass on the table. “What are you doing here?”
Patrice gaped, her cheeks paling under her rouge. Stephen, still standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders, looked like he was ready to bolt. Gloria’s jaw hung open too. Only Sarah continued to sip her drink, as if a gangster hadn’t just joined them.
“What, no hello?” Rodney teased.
“I… Hello.” Fern twisted around, glancing toward the door.
“Cal’s not with us,” Rodney said, and she faced forward again. A chill worked its way up her arms.
“Who’s your friend, Fern?” Sarah asked, lighting a Lucky Strike.
She knew who Rodney was. They all did, Fern was willing to bet. Rodney sent her a coy grin but didn’t introduce himself.
“Sorry, gals, but I’m going to have to steal Miss Adair for a little while,” he said in mock apology.
The smoky air suddenly seemed too thick to breathe. Cal’s warning to never go with Rodney came back to her. He’s unpredictable… When he wants something, I can’t always stop him. And Cal wasn’t here to even try.
Next to her, Patrice slid her hand to Fern’s seat; she clasped the edge of it. “I’m afraid I promised to bring my cousin home soon,” she said, her voice pitched high.
“Don’t you worry about that, sugar lips. I’ll swing her home when we’re finished.”
Rodney stood and, reaching into his pocket, took out a roll of green. “Let’s keep things copacetic.” He dropped it on the table, dragging all eyes to it. God, there had to be a hundred dollars in the wad.
Rodney stepped forward, intimidating Stephen with a hard glare before Stephen moved out of the way. Rodney chucked Patrice on the chin, and when Stephen started to protest, Francis shoved him in the chest.
“Leave him alone,” Fern said.
Francis checked with Rodney before adjusting Stephen’s coat lapels and brushing off his shoulders.
“Let’s go then, doll,” Rodney said. It wasn’t a request.
Patrice’s eyes glittered as Fern got to her feet, legs warm and rubbery. There wasn’t anything more to be done. Arguing or making a scene might only get her cousin and her friends hurt.
The band was still playing, but the music had softened.
Their table had the attention of every eye in the room.
As she followed Rodney and the other man toward the stairs, with Francis behind her, stares pressed against her.
Fern kept her eyes down, her pulse hammering wildly. Don’t go with him, Cal had warned.
Her eyes throbbed along with her heartbeat.
Where he might take her and what might happen next zipped through her head with dizzying speed.
The man who’d opened the door for them only ten minutes before stood aside, giving Rodney plenty of space.
In the alley, the smell of rotting refuse from the trash cans made Fern gag.
Sweat prickled over her forehead and along the back of her neck.
On the corner, a car waited for them. She seemed only to blink before she was seated in the back with Rodney. His leg touched hers. Too close.
“You got some game friends,” Rodney said, taking out a pack of Chesterfields from his breast pocket as the car peeled off the curb.
They weren’t game. The only reason she’d gone with him at all was to draw him and his two goons away from Patrice and her friends.
Belatedly, a blush stole up Fern’s neck and into her cheeks, suffusing her to the scalp.
They’d been kind enough to take her out, and she’d brought a criminal to their table.
“Were you following me?” she asked.
He was quiet, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the dark. On his exhale, he said, “You think I don’t have better things to do than follow some broad around town?”
She’d made him angry. Remembering Cal’s warning that Rodney sometimes lost control stole her next breath.
“Is this about the photographs?” she asked after another few minutes of quiet.
Francis, in the front passenger seat, kept sneaking looks back at her.
Each time she met his eyes, it felt like the seat was dropping out from beneath her.
She wondered if it had been his laughter that she remembered from the haze of that night.
Fern didn’t want to know what he was thinking—and whether it was of the ruined skin he’d seen laid bare.
“The judge is in contact,” was all Rodney offered.
He fell quiet again as the driver steered down a street. The triple-deckers along the curb sank in with familiarity.
He’d taken Fern back to the Lion’s Den.