The Canary Club Page 10

  Once upon a time, I would have protested my brother using that nickname for Vincent, but now, it feels right somehow. He’s not really Vincent anymore, after all.

  “Thank you, JD.” I stand, bone weary and ready to fall into my bed. “Oh, and one other thing. I know Daddy has plans for Benjamin, plans to bring him more into the business.”

  JD nods. “He’s a good egg, that one. Can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing in this line of work.”

  “That’s my point exactly. He’s a good guy. Can we try not to…?” I fumble for the right words.

  “You don’t want me to throw the kid to the wolves, I get it. But I gotta say, if you’re going sweet on this fella, you might want to rethink that.”

  Closing the space between us, I steal the glass from his hand and take a deep, long drink, handing it back empty. “And why is that, brother?”

  “Because this kid, he’s just breaking in. He’s so green I could plant him in a jar on the patio, but he’s got the goods. I just think you’re moving in different directions is all,” he adds, setting the empty glass on the cabinet. “Plus, there’s the simple matter that Dutch would have him skinned alive if he even suspected anything between you two.”

  I laugh. “That’s fair enough. But maybe Benjamin just needs some looking after. Maybe he needs someone to pull back the curtain and show him what’s hiding in the shadows. Someone who can make sure he doesn’t go down the wrong path. A friend.”

  Now JD makes a face, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t go all pious on me, Mas. Your hands are as dirty as anyone’s. Besides, he’s supposed to be lookin’ after you, remember?”

  I shrug. “I suppose we’ll have to look after each other then. There are worse things than having a friend like me.”

  JD barks a laugh. “Name three.”

  Turing my back on him, I look over my shoulder and stick my tongue out at him.

  He laughs again. “My point exactly, Masie. You’re gonna eat that poor fella alive.”

  As I creep down the hall to my room, I can’t help but wonder if JD has a point.

  When I arrive at the penthouse, Masie is still in bed, or so the butler informs me. I’m heartily tempted to go stand at her bedroom window, watch her sleep as she’d done to me, but the inclination fades quickly. She may have seen me as a patient to be watched over, but I doubt I could muster the same detachment.

  Instead, I take a seat on the terrace. The maid brings me a cup of tea and some biscuits with peach marmalade. My groaning stomach quickly reminds me I haven’t eaten all day, and I devour the entire tray in minutes. A rustle behind me draws my attention, and I fully expect to see Masie. Instead, I’m faced with June. Her short auburn bob is disheveled, a pink satin sleep mask pushed hastily up the side of her head. She’s petite, but well curved, her smeared lipstick and eye kohl betraying just how much she drank last evening. She sidles onto the balcony, wincing against the midday sun, and pouring herself a cup of joe from the cart near the door. At first, I’m not even sure she sees me, but then she turns, her floor-length green silk robe slit open to expose matching satin lingerie beneath. I jerk my head in the opposite direction almost before I can make sense of her attire.

  She laughs, a bubbly, cheerful sound, even as I blush. Sure, I’ve seen those sorta things in magazine ads, even, on occasion, on the giggle girls down at the club on the wharf, but never like this. And certainly not on JD’s dame.

  “Sorry, Benny. I thought it was just us girls in the house. JD took his pop to the station this morning and never came back.” She wilts into the chair beside me, raising her cup into the air. “So I took the opportunity to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

  She stares at me expectantly and I fumble, wondering what I am supposed to say to that.

  “That, my dear, is called fishing for a compliment,” she says with an exaggerated sigh. “How can I possibly be expected to flirt with you if you can’t even keep up your part?”

  I set my cup down on the table, plucking a yellow daisy from the centerpiece. “My apologies, Miss June. Please accept this humble consolation.”

  With a flirtatious grin, she takes the flower from my finger and tucks it behind one ear. “It’s a start, I suppose. Though ladies prefer roses.”

  “I’ll take note of that,” I say, tugging at my suit coat. “It certainly is warm today; don’t you think?”

  She waves her hand. “If you’re overly warm, I’d be glad to help you out of your jacket.”

  I feel the heat hit my face and turn away before she can mock me for it. “Perhaps I just need some water.”

  “Why, Benjamin, you look positively flushed.” The voice comes from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder only to confirm its origin. Truthfully, I’d know that sound anywhere.

  “Miss Masie,” I say, pushing my chair back to stand. She’s leaning against the French door on one arm, the other hand on her hip. Her dress is red velvet, with a drop waist and a string of black pearls so long she could probably skip rope with them if she were so inclined.

  “It’s just Masie,” she corrects. “No formality between friends. Isn’t that right, June?”

  June makes a chirping noise, but I don’t look at her. I can’t pry my eyes off Masie. Her golden hair flows in waves to just past her chin, her lips the color of burnt cinnamon. Between the crimson dress and her alabaster skin, her steel grey eyes are startling.

  “You look lovely today, Masie,” I stammer, mentally cursing myself for not being able to come up with anything better to say.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” she says with a warm, throaty laugh.

  “Where are you off to?” June asks, her tone more longing than curious.

  “Well, we have some shopping to do. Isn’t that right, Benjamin?”

  I straighten, pulling my shoulders tight. This isn’t social hour, I remind myself sternly. It’s my job. “If you say so, Mi—Masie.”

  “Well, best get a move on then,” she says, spinning on one toe like a ballerina. “Fifth Avenue waits for no one.”

  As soon as we enter the elevator, she tucks her handbag under one arm. “Sorry about June. She’s a bit…flirtatious.”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t bother me.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t,” she muses.

  Knowing there’s no way to respond and not sound like a mook, I shake off the comment. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  “Well, we have a bit of shopping to do first. I know just the place.”

  The elevator releases us onto the ground floor of her building. The foyer is brass and marble with vases of flowers on ivory pedestals. Her heels clack along until we step past the doorman and outside, her town car already waiting at the curb. Brushing past her, I pull the car door open and she slips inside. I close the door, meaning to sit up front, when she pokes her chin out the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  I pause, fingers still on the handle. “I was going to sit up here.”

  “And how do you plan to protect me from over the seat?” she asks, clicking her tongue. “No, sit back here and keep me company.”

  I obey, catching a glance from the driver.

  She slides over, and I take my spot at her side. Leaning forward, she addresses the driver in a loud voice, “Albert, we’re going to Bergdorf, please.” Sitting back, she leans her head toward me and whispers, “Albert is my chauffer. He’s been with the family since before I was born. Deaf in one ear, the poor darling. But his eyes are sharp as a tack.”

  As we pull away from the curb with a jerk, I can’t help but wonder if she’s overestimating his acuteness. He’s clearly an older man, his white hair thin and poking from beneath his black cap, his skin pruned and spotted with age.

  We crawl toward Fifth Avenue with the windows down, sweltering in the lack of breeze. The traffic is slow in the city, roads so crowded with pedestrians that we have to stop every block to let them swarm across. People bustle across thin streets in clumps. Dock workers heading toward thei
r afternoon shifts in worn trousers, wrinkled shirts, and old suspenders, bankers and stock jockeys returning from long lunches to crunch numbers at their tiny paper-covered desks. Tourists with maps in hand struggle to navigate the heart of the city, wanting to see all the sights she has to offer. Children, hot with the summer air, play stick ball on corner lots or dance in hydrants that spill their fountains of water under the close eyes of firemen. Shop owners adjust signs and baskets of wares on the sidewalks while women, arms full of shopping bags, idle past.

  I take a deep breath, inhaling all of it. My city. My home. It’s as much a part of me as the blood in my veins. I’ve walked each of these streets. I know the sound the concrete makes under the soles of my shoes. Know what the park smells like in spring and how the river swells in the fall. I’ve experienced it more times than I care to count. But today, seeing it all from my seat beside Masie, the smell of her perfume heavy in my nostrils, it somehow seems like the first time. Everything feels new, feels possible. As if the city itself is opening itself up to me.

  Sky’s the limit, it whispers. Anything can happen. Anything is possible.

  It’s that contagious, alluring hope that draws people to this tiny island.

  And for the first time in my life, I allow myself to embrace the possibility of actually having everything.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Masie says, drawing my attention to her.

  I scratch the side of my head, embarrassed to admit my childish contemplation. “My friends call me Bad Luck Benny. Did you know that?” She smiles and shakes her head. No, of course not. How could she? “I have a bit of a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I was just thinking that maybe my luck’s changing. Do you think that’s possible, Masie?”

  She leans back, sprawling in her seat, her back pressing against her door. “I don’t believe in luck. Or rather, I think perhaps we make our own luck, if such a thing even exists.”

  “How so?” I ask curiously.

  “Well, my father is a self-made man, you see. He started with nothing. His own father died when he was just a child, forcing him to leave school to support his mother and sister.” She pauses, rolling her pearls in one hand and gazing out the window before continuing. Inside me, something tugs. At first, a pang of sympathy—I know all too well the burden her father faced. But then something more, a desire to comfort her as she speaks. But she seems distant so I remain still, watching her with careful measure.

  “He worked odd jobs where he could, then he fell in with a minor mobster in Harlem. He rigged craps games for him. That’s when he met my mother; her father worked for the organization too. They got married later that year. He got in some trouble after that, did a nickel in Blackwell Island prison. Once he got out, he used what he’d managed to stash to start up the trucking company. JD came along soon after, then me a year later. By the time prohibition hit, he’d already opened his first club, and his trucking company became one of the biggest liquor-smuggling operations in the state. Mother hated it, the business. Always talked about the day he’d be able to retire, to go live on a farm upstate. But that was her dream; I doubt it was ever his.”

  “Where is your mother now?” I ask.

  Her eyes flicker to me, something passing across her face that hardens her. She straightens, smoothing her dress across her legs.

  “She’s no longer with us.”

  Mentally kicking myself, I apologize. “Oh, Masie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up the past.”

  She shrugs it off, looking away again.

  “I lost my father just last year,” I continue. “I know how painful it can be.”

  “It feels like a long time ago,” she responds, her voice thin and strained.

  The car swerves against the curb before I can apologize again.

  “We’re here, Miss,” Tony announces.

  When she faces me again, her smile has returned. “Well, Benjamin, are you ready?”

  I step out of the car, scanning the street before offering her a hand. The building is massive, easily five stories. The first floor is divided into several smaller shops—a perfume shop, a hat maker, even a watchmaker.

  As soon as we stroll in, the salesman greets us like old friends. He’s slender, with a wire thin moustache and a thick French accent.

  “Mademoiselle Schultz, so lovely to see you,” he says, reaching out to her. She offers him her hand, and he lays a chaste kiss across her knuckles. “What can I do for you today?”

  She slides her arm through mine. “I think we are in need of some clothes for my friend Benjamin.”

  He claps. “Of course, Monsieur. This way.”

  “Masie, what are you doing?” I ask as she half drags me through the store.

  “I told you, we’re shopping. Father said you need new suits, so who better to help you pick them out than me? I have a keen eye for size and style, you know. I help JD pick his all the time,” she says cheerfully. Releasing me, she finds a rack of jackets and runs her hand along the fabric. “Besides, it’s not just suits. You’ll need socks, shirts, and hats. If you’re going to be part of the organization, you need to look the part.”

  Even as the wisdom of her words sink in, I struggle to reject them.

  “Masie, I know your father gave me a wad of dough, but I had to use most of it already,” I admit, my voice low.

  She spins on her heel, her skirt fluttering with the movement. Narrowing her eyes, she strides toward me. “Please tell me you didn’t blow it all on cards and women.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s my little sister. She’s been real sick. We need the money to pay for this specialist she’s seeing this week.”

  Her doe eyes widen as she steps back. “Truly?”

  I nod once, sharply. “I was going to use what’s left to get a few things, but I can’t afford all this,” I say, waving to the racks of expensive shirts.

  When she steps close—so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin—I freeze, reduced to feeling like prey waiting to be devoured. She lifts the lapels of my coat and slides it off my back. Then, her delicate fingers work the buttons of my collar, then my sleeves. I know I should stop her, but there’s something far too intimate about her closeness, her undressing me, that prevents me from forming a clear thought.

  “Masie…” I manage to say her name in a breath. It’s a plea, though whether I’m asking her to stop or not, I can’t decide.

  She looks up, her silver eyes locking on mine. “Benjamin, you’re a good man with a good heart. I knew it the first time I saw you, half unconscious and bleeding on my kitchen table. Let me do this for you. Let me help.”

  Her words are soft, and they float through my head. I can only nod in response. Smiling, she takes a step back.

  “Marcel, let’s begin with the trousers. And everything is to be put on my account.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but she raises a single finger to silence me. “And that’s that.”

  We spend the better part of the afternoon trying on clothes. Most fit right off the rack—Masie really does have a gifted eye for size and pattern—only a few items need tailoring at all. She drinks a never-empty glass of champagne and has me walk this way and that like a living doll while she decides on colors, patterns, and cuts. All in all, I wind up with three new pairs of shoes, three suits, and countless shirts, vests, slacks, ties, pocket squares, suspenders, and several pairs of socks. She even sneaks in a few pairs of undershorts in light blue silk when she thinks I’m not looking.

  “Now, we should look at the back-lot items,” she says pointedly to Marcel. He nods once and motions us to follow. We move through the store and are escorted through a set of double doors leading into a mirrored sitting room. It’s brightly lit, every surface shining silver or pure, milky white. There are two walls with waist-high cabinets and one with a long, creamy white chaise lounge stretched out along it. Once we step inside, Marcel locks the doors behind us. Not quite sure if this is part of the typical shop
ping experience, I step protectively between him and Masie, my body tensing to fight my way past the little Frenchman if I have to. But he simply walks to the first cabinet and opens the drawers in descending order, revealing velvet-lined cases of knives and brass knuckles.

  As I watch, he moves to the next cabinet and does the same. Only, that case holds small guns, revolvers, and such. Some hardly the size of a palm, some larger and much more dangerous. Masie moves past me, waving him away. Obediently, he crosses the room and stands, hands folded, in the corner near the doors.

  I whistle. “What’s all this?”

  She picks up a pearl-grip pistol and points it at the mirror experimentally. “If I need to explain these items to you, I fear you might not be cut out for the security business, Benjamin.”

  I sigh and stand beside her. “I know what they are; I just didn’t think fancy joints like this sold these sorta goods.”

  Returning the gun to its place, she brings her chin to her shoulder and wags her eyebrows. “Well, they don’t carry the big stuff. But a fella in your line of work should have at least a little something.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve never needed a gun before.”

  “Well, you’ve never been a mobster before, now have you? These boys, they don’t play nice and they don’t play fair. And if possible, I’d rather not have to help stitch you up again,” she says pointedly. Retrieving a slick silver revolver, she holds it out to me. “What about this?”

  I hold up my hands. “I’m just a bodyguard. I’m no mobster.”

  “I swear you’re so green I feel like I need to water you twice a day,” she says absently, more to herself than me.

  “Are you making fun of me?” I ask, pretending to be insulted. “Not that I mind, I just thought I outta know.”

  For a moment, she grins, but then her smile slips. “Well, I hate to be the one to destroy your illusion, Benjamin, but you are the company you keep.”

  I realize from her tone that I’ve somehow managed to insult her without meaning to. Sliding up so we’re shoulder to shoulder, I offer her a grin. “I keep your company. You’re no mobster.”