The Canary Club Page 5

  By contrast, the other two men wear sharp blue wool suits and swagger hats. They speak in hushed tones, one snapping his fingers at the Irishman, who vanishes behind the bar only to pop back into sight with three short glasses of brown liquor.

  Turning away from them, I continue about my work, careful to keep my eyes cast downward. I focus my thoughts on the task at hand to keep from accidentally eavesdropping. We are closing the truck when the three gentlemen exit the club behind us. The street crowds have thinned and only a handful of folks still mill about, most oblivious to everyone and everything around them.

  The truck door slams shut as Dickey cranks the engine. I’m latching the rear when I hear it…the familiar sound of tires screeching across pavement. My head snaps up, my eyes darting back and forth down the street.

  I spot the oncoming car a moment too late. Too late to listen to my father’s ever-warning voice in my mind telling me to keep my head down. Too late to shout a warning to Dickey sitting in the front seat. Too late to do anything but react on instinct.

  From the corner of my eye, I see JD react, but in that moment between heartbeats, I know he’s moving too slowly. I lunge to my left, my intention being to take him to the ground with me.

  The first bullet rips through me. The pain is blinding. My ears ring with the sound of brass casings hitting the street, rubber tires digging into the firm roadbed, and my own frantic pulse filling my ears.

  The force slamming into my body is enough to push me backward and on top of the man behind me just in time for another bullet to graze me. I don’t feel that one as much as the first, which spreads pain like wildfire through my chest and up my neck in waves, stealing the air from my lungs.

  Dickey shouts my name.

  Around me, the daylight fades as I surrender to the fire, closing my eyes and drawing in a shallow, shaky breath before everything else slips away.

  “Is the laudanum not helping?” Doctor Mackie asks, shining a penlight in my eyes, momentarily blinding me.

  I take a deep breath. Truthfully, I passed the last three bottles off to June for recreational use. Despite his assurances it will help with my insomnia, I can’t bring myself to use it. After seeing Mother abuse it so often, and with such devastating results, just the thought of it turns my stomach.

  “I don’t like it,” I complain. “It makes my mind foggy.”

  Putting the light down, he tsks. “That’s the point, dear.”

  Far greyer than a man should be in his mid-thirties, Doc Mac has a surprisingly grandfatherly countenance. One stern look from him carries the guilt of a hundred nuns, and he gives me one now.

  “I know you are under a great deal of strain, dear.” He hesitates, choosing his words very carefully. My father is his employer, so he can only complain so much about my working such long hours, my frequent headaches from the smoke and lights, and my borderline high blood pressure. We both know the culprit behind my troubles, but we also know that nothing either of us says or does will change my circumstances. “But you must try to rest. You will put yourself in an early grave otherwise.”

  “Better me than someone else, I suppose,” I quip, attempting to lighten the mood, but failing.

  “The laudanum will help you relax. Help you rest. You need that, at least.”

  Sprawling back against the white wing-backed chair, I wave him off. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by Butler, who clears his throat behind him.

  “What is it?” I ask, wearily draping one arm over the headrest.

  “JD just telephoned, Miss. He and your father are on their way here. Doctor, they ask that you remain here until they arrive. There has been a shooting.”

  I spring forward, the bodice of my floral dress tightening around my middle, adding to the tension already growing there.

  “Is everyone alright?” I demand, pushing to my feet and slipping back into my t-strap shoes.

  “One assumes not,” Butler responds, holding out his gloved hands. “But I gather that he and your father, at least, are unharmed.”

  My breath escapes in a low hiss. Is this my fault? Retaliation for the beating I’d personally ordered on the man who’d assaulted my friend? Or was this something else entirely? Father has no shortage of enemies on his own. Even so, I mentally curse myself for adding one more name to that list—even if he’d well and truly deserved it.

  Doc nods to me. “I should go wash up and get ready to receive any wounded.”

  I nod, but say nothing. This is his real job, after all. Not looking after me—though Lord knows he tries to do that as well—but pulling out bullets and stitching up knife wounds. The sort of thing that can’t be done in a hospital without having to answer too many questions. I motion to Butler, who stands in the doorway still.

  “Fetch some clean linens and towels. Set them up in the kitchen. It will be easier to clean up blood from the tile than the carpet.”

  He bows stiffly and exits, leaving me standing in the study and wringing my hands. I should probably go, or at least hide in my room. That’s what Daddy would want. He’s very keen on pretending the violence of his world can’t reach its icy hands into my life—though deep down, I’m sure he knows better. Perhaps this will be a good thing, a way to remind him that, despite his best efforts, he can’t shelter me. He can’t keep me safe, not really. Perhaps he’ll be more open to the idea of sending me off to college then.

  I roll the thought around in my head, balancing it with the silent prayer that whoever is hurt will be all right, while wondering if using this person’s misfortune to my own advantage makes me a truly awful person.

  I don’t have time to debate it too much because the front doors open with a thunderous boom, and I rush toward the sound. One young man, his face pink with exertion and speckled with sweat, carries the limp body of another as JD ushers them toward the kitchen. Father enters last, followed by Vincent, who twists his cap in his hands. Daddy rushes toward me, planting a rough kiss on my forehead.

  “You should go to your room, darling. You don’t need to see this,” he mutters, nearly pushing me down the hall. Then he points toward Doc, who is ushering the boys into the kitchen. “Take care of that boy. He saved my life.”

  I dig my feet into the long carpet. “No, that’s alright, Daddy. I want to see if I can help.”

  Without giving him a chance to respond, I hurry to the kitchen, throwing open the door just in time to see Doc lean over the young man now laid across our antique mahogany table.

  The one who’d been carrying him backs up against the sink, watching Doc work with intent eyes.

  “What can I do?” I ask, taking a spot across the table.

  Doc doesn’t even look up; he simply hands me a towel. “Apply pressure here while I remove the bullet.”

  Taking the towel, I press it to the young man’s side, drawing a deep groan from the mostly unconscious patient.

  Doc uses his light to check the boy’s eyes. Though his face is spotted with blood, his skin paler than my fine bone china, there’s something attractive about him in the cut of his jaw and the small, barely noticeable dimple in his chin. As soon as the thought comes, I shake it away, forcing myself to remain clinical as Doc cuts off his shirt and tie with a pair of medical shears.

  No time for that now.

  “Young man, can you hear me?” Doc asks as he sets to work. “What’s your name?”

  The other boy answers, “It’s Benny. Benjamin.”

  “Alright Benny, this is going to hurt, but I need you to lie very still.”

  Doc motions to the other boy, then to me. “You two are going to need to hold him.”

  I almost ask why since he clearly isn’t responsive, but the other boy takes one shoulder, just above where Doc begins to cut. As soon as the metal pierces his skin, the boy bucks, his eyes flying open. I struggle to hold his other side, pinning him to the table with all the weight I have.

  Finally, there’s a wet popping s
ound, and Doc wrenches the bullet free. Blood flows in earnest now, down Benny’s arm and soaking his chest. The boy whimpers through gritted teeth. Doc wets a rag with some laudanum, pressing it over his nose and mouth for a few seconds. When he finally draws it back, the boy’s head lulls to the side, his green eyes wide.

  Leaning over, I lower my face close to his. “Are you alright?”

  He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if it isn’t quite functioning.

  Finally, he half grins and manages to slur, “I can’t feel my tongue.”

  I let out a sharp laugh, and he smiles up at me. “Hey, you’re really pretty.”

  “You aren’t too shabby yourself,” I offer with a grin. “I mean, except for being full of holes and all.”

  He frowns. “Why am I full of holes?”

  His face is so full of concerned innocence that it’s hard not to smile. “Because you got shot, silly.”

  “I got shot?” His head jerks up in alarm. “Is everyone else alright?”

  “Calm down,” I say, soothing him as best I can with a hand on his shoulder. Then, realizing I’d almost forgotten to keep pressure on the towel at his side, I return to it. “Everyone else is fine.”

  He nods once, his expression relaxing again. “I feel pretty good, considering. Really good, actually.”

  “That’d be the laudanum Doc gave you. Takes the edge off,” I offer, my eyes flicking up to Doc. He’s slowly stitching up the hole in the boy’s shoulder. The bleeding has mostly stopped; it’s just sort of weeping now. “But you’re gonna be fine, Benjamin. Just rest now.”

  His eyes flicker up to mine. “That’s a shame.”

  “What is?” I ask.

  “That I’m gonna be fine. I kinda like being here with you.”

  I sigh. “Oh, you like bleeding out on my kitchen table?”

  He nods once, his face serious. “Whatever it takes.” He hesitates, then continues, “But just in case I don’t make it, do me a solid and look in on Aggie for me.”

  I raise one eyebrow. “Aggie…that your girl?”

  But his eyes roll back and his face goes slack, his head rolling to the side once more. Alarmed, I tap Doc.

  “He’s fine. Just fainted. Probably for the best.”

  “Aggie is his baby sister,” the other boy answers. I’d all but forgotten he was still in the room but when I look up at him again I recognize him as Dickey. He continues, “She’s been sick. Did you mean it when you said he’d be alright?”

  I look to Doc for confirmation.

  “He’ll be fine. Just needs some stitches and rest. Back on his feet in a day, two tops. Can you see he gets home and rests?” Doc asks.

  Dickey nods, but I cut in. “Don’t be silly. He saved my father’s life, and we owe him a great debt. He’ll stay here until he’s recovered enough to go home. You’ll let his family know he’s alright?”

  His expression tensing for a moment, Dickey nods firmly. “Sure thing. Just don’t be surprised if his Ma decided to kill the messenger.”

  I feel the warmth of the sun on my face before I even crack my eyelids. Rustling under the sheets, I reach up to stretch myself awake only to be knocked breathless by the shooting pain in my right shoulder. Jerking my arm back down, I cradle my elbow in my hand and suck in a sour hiss between clenched teeth.

  “Careful there or you’ll spring a stitch.”

  Turning my chin toward the voice, I force my eyes open, straining against the light.

  It’s then I see her. An ethereal figure poised between the large window and me, sheer white curtains fluttering in the breeze behind her. The sunlight streams in around her, bending to caress her silhouette, making her hair shine. She takes a slight step toward me, and her face comes into focus. Her lips are full and the color of ripe strawberries, her nose perfectly sloped, her cheeks high and round. But it’s her eyes that steal my breath, wide, deep set, and the most perfect shade of winter grey I’ve ever seen. There’s a band of rhinestones stretched across her forehead, dripping down either side of her face and adding to her otherworldly appearance. My eyes slide down the length of her, my mind languishing between dreaming and wakefulness. Her dress is a delicate shade of purple with careful silver beads swirling in abstract flourishes across the fabric, a beaded fringe caressing her legs at just above the knee. Something inside me twists uncomfortably.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” she says, her tone bemused as she picks up a martini glass from the bedside table and swallows the clear contents. “Or is your tongue full of lead as well?”

  I clear my throat, struggling to sit up. It’s then I realize two things. The first is that this is too soft to be my bed. The sheets are cool, white satin against my bare legs. But the second thing I realize is I’ve been stripped bare, not even my union suit separating my flesh from the linens. With my good arm, I quickly tug the bedding up around me, still unable to tear my gaze from my mysterious visitor.

  “Am I dreaming?” I ask, shaking my head.

  A slow grin spreads across her face as she answers. “Would you like to be?”

  Her voice is as deep as dark water and honey smooth. I lick my bottom lip, forcing myself to look away from her face before speaking. “How did I get here? And where is here, exactly?”

  Slowly the memory of the shooting blossoms in my mind, the aching in my shoulder finally making sense. “I was shot?” I say, though it comes out a question.

  “Twice, in fact,” she responds. “Though the second was more of a graze really, just above your right hip.”

  My hand involuntarily searches out the area she described. Sure enough, there’s a wide gauze bandage. It’s tender to the touch, but not overly so. I run my hand up my torso and to my opposite shoulder, finding a similar wrapping.

  “And as for where we are, well, they couldn’t just leave you in the street to die after such heroics. So they brought you back here, and our friend Doctor Mackie tended you. He says you’re quite lucky.”

  My eyes flitter back to her, and I can’t help but grin. “Well, that’d be a first,” I mutter.

  “They say you leapt right in front of a bullet. And because of that bravery, I’ll forgive you the bloodstain on the kitchen floor, though the maids may not be so kind. They scrubbed it for hours to get it clean.”

  My mind finally clearing, I begin to put the pieces together. “This is JD’s place?”

  “And mine. This is one of the guest rooms.” She grins again and nods, pointing to the high-backed chair in the corner of the room with a pile of clothes draped over it. “JD left you some clothes. If you’d like to get dressed, I will let them know you’re finally awake.”

  “Finally?” A lump forms in the back of my throat. “How long have I been here?”

  “About a day and a half,” she responds, crossing the room.

  “A day and a half?” I throw back the covers, intending to spring out of bed. It’s only when she glances over her shoulder, then swiftly turns away, that I remember my state of undress and recover myself. “My family will be worried.”

  “Better they worry for a few days so you can return healed than to have you back immediately in a box, don’t you agree?”

  Her words are sharp and cut right through me. “Yes, of course. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Miss…?”

  “Masie,” she says, risking another glance over her shoulder, one slender eyebrow rising. “Besides, your friend took them the news. Told them you’d be recovering here.”

  “Well, I’m Benny. That is, Benjamin Fleischer. It’s nice to meet you.” I motion to the blankets. “I’d offer you a more formal greeting, but I seem to have misplaced my underwear.”

  The corner of her mouth turns up in a way that makes me blush furiously. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve accidentally exposed myself to the dame who is probably JD’s girl, or the fact I can’t bring myself to stop staring at her, half wondering if she’s some sort of merciful angel.

  “Well, Benjamin, that is quite a problem,
isn’t it?” She smirks. “I’ll let JD know you’re up and have Butler fix you something to eat.”

  She steps out of the room, closing the door behind her. As soon as she’s gone, the air chills like she’s taken all the warmth with her. I slowly process our strange conversation as I dress. Sore and feeling a bit like a schmuck, I make my way out of the room and down the hall. Masie intercepts me, sliding one hand up my good arm and hooking her wrist through.

  “This way, Benjamin.”

  I snicker, and she looks genuinely confused.

  Taking pity on her, I lean over, whispering, “Only my mother calls me that.”

  Her expression melts into a satisfied smirk as she leads me out a set of glass doors onto a rooftop terrace. A table is set up, and JD and one of the other men from the club stand as we enter. Masie releases me and takes one of the empty seats as JD reaches out to shake my hand.

  “Benny, good to see you up and about so soon.”

  His handshake is aggressive, overly so, and it shakes my arm painfully.

  The other man speaks, his voice gravely, a cigar stuck between his teeth. “My boy, I want to personally thank you for your quick thinking.” He holds out a hand as well. While his grip is firm, it’s also more solid, genuine. “Please, have a seat.”

  JD waves to the older gentleman, who squats into his chair. “This is my father, Dutch Schultz.”

  The older man jabs a hand at me, the cigar now hooked below his finger. “You can call me Dutch.”

  Nodding, I take my seat, my mind spinning. Between the drugs they must have shot me up with, the shock from the wound, and the surrealism of the room around me, I feel as if I might slip into unconsciousness at any moment. Everything feels hazy, the edge of a dream I’m only now waking up from.

  “And I see you’ve already met my sister, Masie,” JD says, jerking his head in her direction. She smirks and lifts a champagne glass of orange juice, saluting me. The strange feeling inside me twists again, this time in a sense of something else, something eerily similar to victory or relief. Which is silly, because no matter her relationship status, this dame is so far out of my reach she may as well be a star in the sky.