11. City of Ruin - 1927 #2
Desperation had driven him to the gambling tables.
Betting was illegal, but the same organized crime syndicates that made sure alcohol flowed freely despite Prohibition had a corner on backroom games of craps and roulette.
Once James had made up his mind to seek them out, it was a simple matter of making quiet inquiries in the right places.
The next thing he knew, he was betting all of his hard-earned money on what seemed like their best chance at a way out.
At first, he thought it was a dream come true.
Leaders of illicit gambling rings were still leaders, and James looked up to them, pleased when they talked to him like he was a human being rather than an automat at Horn usually he was accompanied by a tableful of cronies.
James wasn’t sure exactly what Charles did, but whatever it was, it was lucrative; he lived at One Lexington, a swanky building down the street, and was here almost every night.
“Hallo there, James.” Charles’s voice was plummy but not officious or snobby, the way so many of the men at the club sounded when they talked—as if they had pretensions of royalty and a mouthful of velvet.
“Everything jake? I couldn’t help but notice you were looking down in the mouth. Work getting to be a bit much?”
James stiffened his spine. It was one of the rules of the club: no personal business was to be shared with members, and employees were to present a pleasant, cheerful demeanor at all times.
He sucked in a deep breath, the air tinged with the aromas of lemon-basted seafood and floral tobacco smoke, and steeled himself.
“No sir, Mr. Carter,” he said, doing his best to tone down his brogue, which he was all too aware marked him as lower-class, even though he’d gotten top marks in the village school before his father’s death had sent their family fleeing to America.
“Everything’s just fine. Can I get you something else to eat? Some grilled oysters, perhaps?”
Charles shook his head, giving a sheepish smile. “No thank you, James. I’ve already gorged myself, waiting for my less-than-punctual friends to make an appearance. It’s quiet in here right now. Why don’t you have a seat?”
James gave an uneasy glance around. If sharing one’s private woes with club patrons was frowned upon, sitting down to have a chin-wag, like they were a couple of regular fellas, was out of the question. “I appreciate the invitation, sir, but I hardly think that would be appropriate.”
“Nonsense,” Charles said, in a tone that didn’t brook refusal. “I insist, and I’ll take full responsibility. Have a seat.” He gestured to the leather couch opposite him.
Before James quite knew how it had happened, he was sitting across the polished wood coffee table from Charles Carter, and the man was asking him all sorts of questions about his life: Did he have a wife? Children?
James was only eighteen, but he was well aware he looked older. Besides, by his age, plenty of guys were married off. “No, sir,” he said, swallowing hard. “I have a sister, though.”
Charles dug in his pocket, pulling out his wallet, and dropped a small photograph onto the surface of the table. “That’s my daughter, Ella,” he said, with unmistakable pride. “Isn’t she lovely?”
James leaned in closer, to see. The photo was of a girl about two years old, cradling a cat in her arms, with a headful of curly ringlets and wide eyes.
She smiled directly into the camera, with the self-assurance of a child who knew she was loved, and her chubby cheeks were a sure indication of the fact she never missed a meal.
He thought of Maisie’s hands, red and rough from doing rich people’s chores, and his stomach twisted.
Why did his sister, whose only crime was being born into poverty, deserve to suffer, while this little girl had the best of everything?
Charles was looking at him expectantly, dark brows raised, and James forced himself to swallow his rage. “She’s beautiful, sir,” he managed. “You and Mrs. Carter must be very proud.”
Beneath his well-trimmed mustache, a wistful smile lifted the corners of Charles’s lips.
“We are. She was somewhat of a miracle, you see. Mrs. Carter and I have been married for quite some time, and the Lord didn’t see fit to bless us with a little one until Ella was born.
I’m afraid perhaps we dote on her more than we should. ”
As James was considering how to reply, two men swept through the heavy front door of The Players, bearing a gust of cold air.
Charles stood, and James shot to his feet as well, snatching his tray off the table, his cheeks burning.
Ignoring the sidelong glances the other men gave him, he took their orders and retreated to the kitchen, the press of their eyes heavy on his back.
As he strode away, he could hear Charles admonishing them for their lateness, and one of them teasing him about his choice of companion in their absence.
James’s cheeks burned even hotter. It didn’t matter how polite Charles Carter was to him, or what invitations he extended.
The divide between them couldn’t be erased.
He’d been foolish to even entertain the idea that Charles might want to loan him the funds to absolve his debts and help Maisie. No, he’d have to find another way.