Chapter 21
At Adrian’s direction, the taxi takes us to Lenox Avenue.
Women in colorful dresses walk arm-in-arm with men in dapper suits, while children chase each other up and down the sidewalks, their laughter filling the air.
Though most of the faces share Adrian’s dark complexion, there are enough pale ones sprinkled in that I shouldn’t be particularly memorable.
We stop in front of a narrow door tucked in beside a restaurant offering fish dinners for ten cents.
A sign over the door proclaims it to be Cleo’s Clam House.
Adrian pays the taxi driver, then opens the door to reveal a steep set of stairs going up.
He leads the way to a tiny landing with a second door, which he knocks on.
The door swings open, revealing a large man with dark umber skin, wearing a suit that strains to contain his impressive shoulders. “Adrian!” He does a double-take at our suits, which are sadly stained with smoke and ash. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Good to see you again, George.” Rather than answer the question, Adrian shakes his hand warmly. “This is Mr. Sterling Caine. Cleo around?”
“She was at the bar last I saw her.” George steps back to let us inside.
“Thanks—and if anyone comes asking after us, you haven’t seen me in months and never met Mr. Caine.”
George puts a hand to his ear. “That a ghost I hear talking? Cause no one’s here but me.”
Adrian grins back and claps him on the shoulder, before heading deeper into the establishment. I follow, peering around in interest.
The space is wider than I expected—Cleo’s must occupy a good chunk of this floor.
Round tables with white cloths take up much of the front room, though there is a small stage for a band, currently unoccupied.
A mix of Black and White customers dine on oysters, clams, and other fare, the scent of brine and fish heavy on the air.
A pair of double doors in the back wall leads to the second room, which has a larger stage, dance floor, yet more tables, and the bar. Two of the female customers are wearing sailor suits, and I assume they’re a couple from both their outfits and the fact they’re holding hands.
To my surprise, I feel a pang of longing. This is the sort of place I needed before the war, when my family was pressuring me to take a job at the armament factory alongside my father and brothers. If only I were here under different circumstances.
Though who am I kidding? I’ve lived in New York for years and never ventured much beyond Forgotten Folios and my apartment building. I could have gone to any number of speakeasies, attended drag balls, done a hundred other things prior to my lost year. But I didn’t.
A woman sits at one end of the bar, talking to the bartender, and as we approach Adrian calls, “Cleo!”
“Adrian! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Boston.” She hops off the stool, revealing herself to be much shorter than her brother. “And what the hell happened to you?”
“Nothing to worry about.” He gives her a warm hug. “Cleo Evans, this is Sterling Caine.” He pauses and glances around. “We need to talk to you privately.”
Miss Evans looks me over skeptically. She wears a frock of crimson silk trimmed in crepe, with a pleated skirt and a white silk flower pinned to the shoulder. My poor suit might have passed muster if I hadn’t crawled through a building fire, but as it is she clearly thinks I’m not up to snuff.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Evans,” I say awkwardly.
She tosses a look at her brother I can’t interpret. “Why does he talk like an old man?”
Adrian just laughs. “He’s polite, Cleo. You ought to try it sometime yourself.”
She shakes her head and starts away. “Come on, Grandpa,” she calls back over her shoulder at me.
As Cleo makes for a secluded table shielded by potted plants, I turn to Adrian. “I don’t talk like an old man, do I?”
He cocks his head and flashes me a smile. “Let’s call it part of your charm.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, but thankfully he’s already turned to follow his sister. I scurry after them, taking a seat beside Adrian at the four-person table. A waiter in white tails materializes an instant later.
“You know my drink,” Cleo tells him. “Gents?”
Adrian orders a gimlet, but I hesitate, recalling Barney Foster. “No offense, Miss Evans, but, er, have any of your customers suffered from ailments of the mind after drinking here?”
Cleo arches an incredulous brow at me, clearly ready to take offense. Adrian lifts a hand to forestall her. “He’s got good reason for asking, sis. I assume you’re at least keeping the real McCoy for yourself and your guests, but…?”
She huffs, then relents. “I read the newspapers just like anyone else. I’ve got a different distribution network, if you know what I mean.”
I don’t, but nod as if I understand completely, lest I be called “Grandpa” again. “In that case, I’ll have a martini.”
The waiter leaves, and Adrian leans toward his sister. “Do the names Myers and Gabrielli mean anything to you?”
Her eyes narrow. “What have you got yourself mixed up in?”
“Just answer the question.”
“They work for Vince Vitali. He’s one of the major bootleggers, headquartered in some town in Massachusetts no one’s ever heard of.”
“Widdershins?” I guess.
She looks surprised. “That’s it. Don’t get me wrong, Vitali isn’t the only one—Widdershins is a major entry point for illegal liquor. Everyone knows it, but the prohees—that’s prohibition agents, Grandpa.”
“I knew that!” I exclaim indignantly, and am rewarded with an impish grin.
“Sure you did. Anyway, the prohees don’t seem to be able to do a damn thing about it. Maybe for the usual reason, by which I mean hefty bribes, but even then they usually make an arrest or two just so it looks like they’re doing something. Not there, though.”
The waiter returns with our drinks, which thankfully look nothing like the horrible Widdershins Special that Adrian had tricked me into trying. “I’ll signal if we need you,” Cleo tells the waiter, and he vanishes with alacrity.
“Does Vitali have a presence here?” Adrian asks after taking an appreciative sip of his drink.
I try my martini and am relieved to find it tastes as expected—or perhaps a little better, since the alcohol doesn’t have the raw edge of most illicit booze.
Perhaps Adrian was right and his sister is keeping real imported liquor for herself and her friends, or maybe the Clam House is just a better quality of speakeasy.
“Not in Harlem. He distributes to the Lower East Side, though.”
“And Myers works for him.”
“I can only repeat what I’ve heard, but Frank Myers is one of Vitali’s top lieutenants. Tony Gabrielli is under him.”
If Myers is high up in a crime syndicate, why the devil was he pretending to be a butler? “What about Zebulon Hart?” I ask. “How is he involved?”
Cleo shrugs. “Never heard of him.”
Adrian sits back, chewing at his lower lip. I can’t help but watch the flash of white teeth against the plumpness, imagine nipping at it…
No, I am not having these thoughts. Adrian still believes I killed a man, or had him killed, over a book auction. And for all I can remember, maybe I did.
My life is already too complicated. I’m not going to add to that with romantic fantasies.
“What about Chrono-Flav?” he asks Cleo. “Or Chrysalis?”
“The first sounds like something I’d order at a soda fountain, and the second at a butterfly convention.”
“Or a moth,” I say, flashing on the image of the death’s-head hawkmoth superimposed on an hourglass.
Cleo shoots me an odd look. “Sure, whatever you say.” She turns her attention to her brother. “Level with me, Adrian—are you in trouble?”
“I’m working a case for the insurance company, that’s all.”
“And that’s why you show up looking like you rolled around in a fireplace, asking about a bootlegging syndicate?” She shakes her head. “Do you even have a change of clothes?”
He makes a face. “I lost my bag when we were attacked by a family of cannibals.”
“I don’t know why I bother.” Her roll of the eyes makes it clear she thinks he’s making it up. “What else do you need?”
“Have your boys keep an eye out for anyone suspicious, especially if they start asking questions. In the meantime, I could use a new suit and some toiletries. Actually, we both could.” He turns to me. “We have to assume your apartment is being watched.”
Of course we do. I start to reply, but am interrupted when George hurries up. “Someone’s asking around about Adrian and Mr. Caine.”