Speak Low (Speak Easy 2)

I was almost to the table when I recalled another way to access stairs to the upper floors—the tunnels.

Subterranean passageways led from the club to hidden stairwells as well as to buildings across the street. They were used for escaping during raids or for booze deliveries, but if I could find my way into them, they’d sure be useful to me tonight.

Biting my lip, I scanned the club. There was a door to the tunnels in a room behind the bar, but I’d have to convince the bartender to let me back there, which seemed unlikely. One leg twitched impatiently. It would’ve been much easier to think through this plan if I wasn’t so goddamn tipsy—the room was positively spinning.

With a loud blaring solo by the trumpet player, the band swung into a hot jazz number, and the crowd rushed the dance floor. I went along, the murky edges of an idea taking shape in the back of my head. I pushed through the dancers as they jumped and flailed to the two-beat rhythm, feeling the thump of the bass drum in my chest. Awkwardly I tried to dance along with them a little, lifting a knee here and an elbow there, hoping it looked like the Charleston, a smile plastered on my face. Thankfully everyone was either too drunk or too exhilarated by the music to notice me. When I’d made my way to the front, I skirted the stage over to the side. An unguarded door led to the backstage area, and I hurried through it without stopping.

I saw no one. Moving quickly, I walked past doors labeled Dressing Room and kept my eyes peeled for one that might access the tunnels. There had to be an entrance to them on this side of the club—if the cops came in the main doors from the street, the room behind the bar wouldn’t provide a safe getaway. The logical exit would be in the opposite direction. I congratulated myself on this brilliant deduction, and when I came to an unmarked door, I squealed inwardly and threw it open.

Unfortunately it led to a prop closet where two women and a man were engaged in an activity that was definitely not the Charleston, although it looked just as rhythmic and entertaining, with limbs extended every which way. “Oops, sorry!” I whispered, backing out and slamming the door.

Damn.

I hurried further along the backstage corridor until I came to another door. Crossing my fingers, I twisted the knob and pushed it open, and found myself inside a closet full of cleaning supplies. But at the back of the closet I saw something else—the outline of another door. Stepping around buckets and rags, I prayed the door would open without a key. Who has time to fumble with keys during a raid, right? I pushed the cleaning implements aside.

No lock. Just a baseball-sized hole in the wood, through which I stuck my fingers and yanked.

It opened.

I took a second to pull the outer door shut behind me and ducked into the tunnel, my heart pounding at the sudden darkness. Enzo and I had snuck up to Angel’s office twice last week using the tunnels, but he’d had a lighter in his pocket that we’d used to illuminate the way. I fumbled in my purse, where I’d stuck a few cigarettes in a small case along with a matchbook. How many did I have left? My fingers shook as I felt for the number of matches—four. Saying a quick prayer they would last, I lit the first one and started walking.

With one hand brushing along t

he cement wall for balance, I moved as quickly as my legs would carry me down the dirt-floored tunnel. The music receded until I couldn’t hear it anymore, and my breathing got louder. I stopped twice to light new matches and once when the passageway forked and I had to make a choice about which way to go. I stayed to the right, reasoning I was traveling clockwise around the perimeter of the club and wanted to stay close to it. When my third match was nearly burnt out, I came to another wooden door. Crossing myself with my free hand, I pushed it open. Just as the match burned dangerously close to my fingers, I saw stairs.

With a sigh of relief, I blew out the match in my hand and lit the last one.

Then I climbed two flights of stairs and pushed open the heavy door at the top.

Bingo.

Angel’s office was just down the hall. Based on previous experience, I knew that office made Enzo feel powerful and confident, whether it was business or pleasure. Pushing the stairwell door closed behind me, I leaned back against it and blew out the match.

“Hey!” bellowed a deep voice. “How’d you get up here?”

I jumped. The goon in the dark suit who’d come for Joey was striding down the hallway toward me. He wasn’t that tall, but he was wide and thick-knuckled, and I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.

“I want to see Enzo.” I planted my feet and stood tall.

When he reached me, his eyes traveled down my body and up again. “What’s it worth?”

“Go to hell.” I scooted around him and bolted for the office, but he chased me, catching my upper arm with iron fingers.

“Let go of me, you ape.” I tried to wrench my arm from his grip. “Enzo! Help!”

The goon squeezed tighter. “Shut the fuck up.”

The door to the office swung open and Joey burst through it. The next thing I knew Joey had thrown a punch so hard it knocked the goon off balance. As he stumbled backward, he let go of my arm and Joey landed a few jabs to his gut before taking a hit in the face. “Joey!” I cried.

With the back of one hand he touched his nose, which was bleeding. He looked at it and then delivered a series of blows to the goon’s face and stomach that had him reeling. I flinched at each sickening crack and thump. Finally, the goon went down hard.

“What the fuck, Lupo?” Enzo elbowed his way past Joey into the hallway.

“He had his hands on her.” Joey’s chest heaved with heavy breaths, and he gingerly touched his nose once more.

Enzo looked at me. “Is that true?”

“Yes!” I snapped.