The Canary Club Read online

  It takes me a long time to get his body into the car, slumping it across the backseats again. Only this time, my hands are slick with blood.

  Blood of my friend. Blood of my enemy.

  Blood I’m quite sure no amount of soap will ever truly wash away.

  I may not have killed Dickey, but I brought him here—got him entangled in this mess. It’s my fault he’s gone as much as if I’d pulled the trigger myself.

  Masie should have let me kill him, a bitter voice echoes inside my head as I stare down at the dead body in the backseat. If she had, there’d still be blood on my hands, but at least Dickey would still be here.

  As soon as the small voice makes itself heard, I shake it away.

  Masie had only been trying to save me, to keep me from becoming like Mad Dog—a killer. She’d been willing to do the deed herself to spare me that. And I’d only been trying to save her by bringing him here, set on letting myself become a monster to keep her safe.

  God, how many more people are going to die in our desperate quest to save each other?

  None. I swear. Whatever happens next, however we have to get free, we will do it, and no one else will die because of us—not if I can help it.

  I slide into the driver’s seat, cursing myself for never learning how to drive. Sure, I’d seen it done enough that maybe I can at least fake it. There won’t be too many people on the road at this ungodly hour. If I take it slow and stick to backroads, I should be all right.

  Cranking the engine to life, I wrack my brain for where to head. I need a place where the body won’t be found for a few days, not before Masie and I can make our break. I chew at the inside of my cheek, my hands clutching the wheel like a man clutches a lifesaver in the ocean, hands shaking, knuckles white.

  There’s an empty beer warehouse down by the wharf. One of Dutch’s places that’s sitting empty until the next shipment arrives in two weeks.

  Grabbing the shifter in one hand, I pull it back, gears grinding, then press the pedal.

  I manage to make it to the warehouse without hitting anything, which is a minor miracle, though I practically crawl the entire way. Once I open the massive double barn doors, I opt to push the car inside rather than try to drive it.

  Struggling once again with the body, I finally wrestle it into the driver’s seat, just as it’s beginning to stiffen up.

  My shirt is ruined, and the sun is finally crawling up the sky. Slipping out of my dark jacket, I take off the shirt. Digging through the dead man’s pocket once more to find a box of matches, I take it around the corner and light it on fire, watching it burn to the last ember, then stomping on it and scattering the ashes.

  Slipping my jacket back on over my white undershirt and suspenders, I pull the heavy doors closed behind me and walk out into the sun.

  Slinking back down the wharf, I grab a trolley uptown, back to the penthouse where by now Masie has safely snuck back inside—hopefully no one the wiser.

  It’s a long trip, Dickey’s absence hitting me in ways I don’t expect. We’ve been friends so long I can’t help but lament the fact that he’d never again tell me a dirty joke, never talk me into attending a poker game in a sketchy back room in China Town, never come over for dinner and teach Thomas inappropriate slang.

  Each realization hits me like a bullet to the chest, filling me with holes no one can see, but that I can feel all the same.

  He deserved better than this. Better than being unceremoniously dumped in a grave that doesn’t even bear his name. A specter rises inside me, demanding justice. Demanding revenge.

  No, my revenge will have to be my escape, the careful dismantling of the empire that sacrificed him, and my determination to live my own life the best way I can.

  That is how I will honor him.

  Not with vengeance, but with life.

  By the time I arrive at the penthouse and make my way up, the entire family is already eating brunch, gathered around the table as if nothing happened. Masie is nursing a cup of coffee, her arm in a sling. I wince at the sight of her, badly bruised but freshly washed, her still damp hair held back by a colorful scarf. JD is showing off an article about the grand opening that made the front page of the paper, and Dutch sits, his back to the doors as I arrive, a puff of cigar smoke in the air above him like a thunder cloud.

  “Sir,” I say, making my entrance. “Do you have a minute?”

  Glancing over his shoulder, he nods, waving me in. “Of course. Do come in, my boy.”

  “I did as you asked,” I say boldly, hiding my shaking hands in my pockets. “Vincent Coll will no longer be an issue.”

  Now he turns in his seat. I pull my hands from my pockets. They’re still covered in dry blood and dirt. My hands, I say without speaking, are as dirty as yours.

  He glances from me to Masie, who, playing her part perfectly, slides her chair back and storms off into the house without a word.

  “Well done, my boy. Well done.”

  “Yes, sir. Am I to finish the preparation for the opening now?”

  He flicks his hand. “Yes, yes.”

  With that, I turn and leave, hoping with everything in me that I’ll never have to step foot in that place again.

  I hear the front door slam, and I know Benjamin is gone. I feel the absence of him the way one feels the sun moving behind a cloud, as if warmth is being drained from my skin. Sitting at my vanity, I stare at myself in the mirror, taking careful stock of each of my injuries.

  I hate that I’d had to leave him to deal with the bodies alone. I hate that he’d even ended up in that shed, and I hate what he’d been about to do—to keep me safe. Hearing those words—my father’s words—spill from his mouth had been the worst blow of all. With my free hand, I slide open the small drawer, moving aside my lacy scarves and shimmering headpieces, searching until my fingertips touch the cool leather billfold. Pulling it free of the mess, I crack it open, looking carefully at the numbers tucked away in my personal ledger.

  Daddy is unaware of the account. I’d taken it out under Mother’s maiden name when I first came home. It was meant to be my secret rebellion, my stash of dough that was beyond his ability to monitor—or cut off. But, over the past few months, I’ve been able to funnel away more and more—selling the expensive jewelry he gave me whenever his conscience got the better of him for one of his tantrums or from asking for funds for trips I never actually took, for clothes I purchased and then returned.

  I actually have a nice little egg sitting in the savings and loan, untouchable and untraceable to anyone but me.

  But it won’t be enough.

  To get away, to start over. Sure, it might last a bit, but I know myself well enough to know I’ll blow through it in no time, even being as frugal as I’m able.

  I fold it up and tuck it away, my mind drifting to the safe in Daddy’s bedroom. In it, there’s some cash, some bonds, and all Mother’s expensive baubles.

  It will be enough, I decide, any guilt at the idea of theft instantly assuaged by the knowledge that whatever it is, I’m owed at least that much. It’s mine, the only inheritance I want from this life.

  I close the drawer just as a single knock bounces off my door, a hand sliding it open before I can respond.

  Daddy steps into my room, and I turn just a bit in my seat to face him.

  “Yes?” I ask, allowing my voice to warble but keeping my expression carefully neutral.

  “You alright, Masie?” he begins, his tone one of concern, but with something else beneath, an undercurrent of haughtiness. “I know Mad Dog was your friend.”

  I turn away, shielding my face from him. “He hasn’t been my friend in a very long time. You saw to that.”

  “I was just trying to keep you safe—to keep us all safe. Why can’t you get that through your stupid little head?” I glance back at him. The thick vein in his forehead pulses beneath the skin, a telltale sign of his barely withheld anger.

  “Of course, Daddy.”

  He rakes a hand down
his face. “You think you’re so much better than me? Just like your mother.”

  I shake my head. “Not at all. I’m not better than you or anyone else. I’m your daughter, through and through. I know that—I know that better than anyone. The difference between us is that I want to be better. I can be, if you’d let me.”

  He just stares at me for a long moment. In that time, I’m not sure if he’s going to rage again or just fling back some verbal abuse. To my surprise, he does neither. He simply turns quietly and leaves, pulling the door closed behind him with a click.

  Opening night arrives as scheduled. Masie, for her part, has been casually aloof, no longer spending days with me at the club. If not for the note JD delivered only yesterday, even I might have bought the act.

  Dearest Benjamin,

  * * *

  I have had to keep my distance these past few days, so as not to arouse Daddy’s suspicion. I’ve been very carefully planning, and I believe I have everything I need in place.

  * * *

  Know that whatever happens now, I love you—and I will go to my grave loving you—nothing can ever change that.

  When I sing tonight, it will be for you alone, and if it’s God’s will, then I look forward to singing for only you, for the rest of my days.

  * * *

  All my affection,

  Masie.

  I’ve read it so many times the paper is thinning and wearing in the creases. Even now, I have it tucked inside my breast pocket, close to my heart. Dutch and his cronies sit at one of the private booths on the main floor, already sampling the new drink menu as well as several trays of fresh oysters, caviar, and pickled herring—Dutch’s favorite dishes. The door opens and the first line of patrons, those with VIP tickets, enter. I immediately recognize two actresses, a baseball player of some note, the governor, and Mayor Jimmy Walker. The band strikes up, a smooth jazz number, the horns and double bass greeting each person as they enter.

  I, too, make my way around the floor, floating from group to group as Dutch makes introductions. Finally, knowing I need to prepare for the real show, I make my way to Masie’s dressing room. When I turn the corner, I see Artie, two dozen yellow roses in hand, standing outside, straightening his tie before knocking. She pulls the door open, smiling her stage smile, and greeting him with a peck on the cheek.

  She accepts the flowers, then, catching sight of me, waves. I step forward, trying not to look as jealous as I feel.

  “Thirty minutes to show time,” I say. “Artie, good to see you.” I hold my hand out, and he shakes it hesitantly.

  “Benny, you’ve done wonders with this place,” he says. I take the opportunity to lead him away from Masie.

  “Thank you so much. Say, I happened to notice Mayor Walker out there with Dutch. Have you met him yet?”

  Artie shakes his head, a strip of yellow hair falling free of his coif. He quickly smoothes it back.

  “Well, let’s rectify that, shall we?” I pat him on the back.

  He mutters a farewell to Masie. She blows a flirtatious kiss, and while it makes him grin, I’m secretly sure it was meant for me.

  By the time Dutch stands at the microphone, silencing the crowd, the place is packed to the gills. Every seat is taken, each table full. Resplendent in their glad rags and tuxedos, the patrons sip their expensive cocktails and munch on the hors d’oeuvres circulating on trays carried by waiters in top hats and scantily clad giggle girls.

  The main room, circular in design, is Grecian in style, with stone columns supporting the upper-level seats. Tall palm trees rise from each corner, their green leaves seeming to create a lush canopy above. The stage is set back from the dance floor. On the far side, a handful of open tables sit in the middle of the room. Beneath the balconies, a half-circle of booths line the lower level, each with a privacy curtain thick enough to drown out the roar of the crowd when drawn. The upper level is the real wonder. Each table is at the very edge of the balcony, held back by a long, black iron gate reminiscent of an Italian villa, each chair with a green velvet cushion and the backs the same iron, only with spindles of ivy inlaid in the pattern.

  Pulling my pocket watch from my vest, I check the time. Nearly ten.

  Nearly time.

  Stepping behind the long bar, I quickly flip the small switch below the first wall sconce, the one that disables the alarms. Then, after helping myself to a shot of whiskey, I wait.

  Dutch finishes his speech to a round of wild applause and announces Masie to the stage.

  I must admit, she looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. Her golden hair is in perfect waves along the sides of her face, her feathered headpiece like the plumage of an exotic bird. Half a dozen long strands of pearls hang from her neck, and her dress, a sparkling white beaded number, looks like a snowflake under a microscope, iridescent and fragile.

  She offers the crowd a flirtatious grin. “What are all you people doing in my club?” She laughs, and it twinkles like church bells. “Alright, you troublemakers, where are my rebels?” The crowd cheers. “Where are my rabble rousers? My flappers and dandies?”

  They cheer again, and she cups her hand over her ear, encouraging them to shout even louder. “Well, I have something to tell you. This ain’t no speakeasy. We’re going to shout it into the night, so even the flatties across the river know we’re having a good time. Ain’t we got fun?”

  The cheers go up once more as the band kicks off. Couples take to the dance floor like fish to water, stomping until the walls vibrate with each footstep.

  It’s about this time that JD enters the bar, offering me a subtle nod. He’s actually been in the office the whole night, adjusting the ledger as I’d asked him. Now, he heads toward Lucky Luciano, who is sitting at the bar with one of his girls hanging off his arm. Leaning in, JD whispers something. Lucky nods once, taking his date by the elbow, then follows JD behind the beaded curtain toward Masie’s dressing room and one of the secret exits.

  The third song in, the door swings open and uniformed officers swarm in like angry wasps. I have only a minute to hit the lever that hides away the liquor and the till at the bar. People scatter, screaming, for the exits. Taking advantage of the chaos, I grab Masie off the stage, ushering her back to her dressing room and the rear exit.

  “Time to go,” I whisper. “See you soon.”

  I release her, but she clings to my arm a moment longer, her expression fierce.

  “You’d better not stand me up, Benjamin.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, pushing her into the room and pulling the door closed behind her.

  Bursting back into the main room, I slide a glance to Dutch, who closes his booth curtain, blocking himself and his party from view. Mayor Walker swaggers toward O’Hara, who has his gun drawn. All around us, cops are gathering up whoever they can get a hold of, mostly club employees and a handful of notable faces, each demanding their release.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demands loudly.

  “I think you know, Mister Mayor. And you should be ashamed, cavorting with criminals.”

  Detective Dewey walks up behind his partner, his trench coat brushed back at the hips where his hands are stuffed into his pockets.

  “Cuff him,” O’Hara demands of a beat cop so green he literally fumbles with the cuffs at his belt.

  “Don’t you dare,” Mayor Walker challenges. “I’ll have your badge for this, O’Hara.”

  The two of them go at it for a minute, shouting at each other while the poor Johnny, still too scared to move, looks on.

  I move toward the office door, jerk my head toward Dewey, who abandons the hotheads to their screaming match and heads my direction. I push the bookshelf open and lead him into the office.

  Tugging the ledger free of its place in the top drawer, I hand it over. “I think you need to have a good look at that before your partner shows up,” I say, taking a seat in the chair.

  “Oh, and why is that?”

  I lean forward, rest
ing my elbows on the desk. “Well, your partner threw around some pretty heavy threats when you weren’t around. He threatened to have me thrown back in the clink on whatever charges he could trump up, and when that didn’t work, he threatened my mother and the twins. He seemed determined—desperate even—to get his hands on that ledger. I was curious as to why, so I took a hard look at it. Turns out that Dutch has been paying off several cops to look the other way at his interstate shipments. One of those cops, incidentally, is O’Hara.”

  I let that hang in the air between us for a few minutes, letting him thumb through the ledger and find the payoffs listed before I continue. “That’s his badge number, isn’t it?”

  He mutters something I can’t quite make out, but it sounds a bit like, well, I’ll be damned.

  I expel a breath of relief. I’m sure JD’s careful forgery, written in what appears to be Dutch’s own hand, will be more than enough evidence to see both Dutch and O’Hara behind bars. It’s the only way to get Dutch out of the business without having him wind up on a slab, and to keep my family safe from whatever O’Hara has up his sleeve.

  I stand. “All I can figure is he wanted to get a hold of the only evidence that implicated him and destroy it before anyone else could take a look.”

  “We found Coll’s body this morning—got an anonymous tip to the station. They found one of his cards in Coll’s wallet. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  I shrug, lying through my teeth. “I only know that Dutch said the problem had been taken care of.”

  Just then, O’Hara bursts through the door, pointing a finger first at me, then at the ledger.

  “That’s mine, Dewey. This is my bust and that’s my evidence.”

  “Officer Van Pelt,” Dewey hollers, holding the ledger back from O’Hara when he tries to snatch it from his hand. Once the portly officer enters the room, Dewey nods to his partner. “Arrest this man.”