Speak Low (Speak Easy 2)

“No!”

“Then how do you explain it?”

“I don’t know, Tiny! Maybe she had some clothing in here or something. Yes, that must be it. She’s been moving some of her things to a new place.”

“A new place at the Statler?” I snapped. “How convenient it would be to have your wife and mistress in the same hotel!”

“No.” He dropped my arms and rubbed his face with his hands. “Jesus Christ, Tiny. I brought you here tonight because I thought it was what you wanted. You told me it was what you wanted. Your own place. Where you can come and go as you please. Where you can do what you want.” He looked at me. “Am I wrong? Isn’t that what you want?”

I struggled to reply. “Yes. But no. I mean—not like this.”

“You don’t want the apartment?” He held up a key. “Because that’s what I was doing in there. Getting you your own key.” When I didn’t take it, he dropped it into my lap. “It’s yours, Tiny. You want to get out of your father’s house? Here’s your opportunity.”

I stared at the gold key, linked to an oval plate that said Hotel Statler, Detroit, Michigan. “I can’t afford it.”

“I’ll pay the rent.”

“I’m not your charity case, Enzo.”

“I’ll get you a job at the club. I just want you to stay here, so I can see you when I want. When you want. It’ll be fun, just like we said.”

I sighed, exhausted and overwrought, physically and emotionally. Did I really want to continue fighting him? What did we owe each other, after all? Fidelity? Or just a good time? I played with the key in my lap. “I don’t know, Enzo. I need to think about it. Can you take me home now, please? I’m tired.”

We went back to the club, where Enzo put me in a different car and instructed one of his men to drive me home. As usual, I had no idea when or where I might see him again, but I was so worn out I didn’t much care. I nodded off several times on the way home and fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

#

The next morning I woke up around eight, the sounds and smells of breakfast drifting into my room. The scent of coffee made me whimper a little, and I licked my dry lips. Actually my entire mouth was dry, and my tongue felt swollen. Dammit, who told me to drink so much? Every one of my teeth felt as if it was covered in wool. I tried to sit up and promptly fell back when the sunlight stabbed my eyes. Was it always this bright in here in the morning?

I flung an arm over my face. I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to think.

But over the clink of plates and cups downstairs, I heard Enzo’s voice telling me who killed Joey’s father again. The gunman outside the prison was a hitman named Legs Putnam. And the hit was ordered by Sam Scarfone.

I couldn’t remember all the names of the men brought to trial for the ambush at the police station, but there were several, and Putnam might have been one of them. A few had been held but released for lack of evidence, and the trial had been a joke. I vividly recalled the day the jury reached a verdict—not guilty, of course. No witness had been willing to testify, and every member of that jury was well aware of the danger involved in deciding against a gangster. They reached a verdict in less than an hour.

I swallowed hard. Had the same hitman shot Vince too? What would it do to Bridget, knowing the name of the man who put the bullets in her husband, robbing her children of their father, robbing her of the love of her life? She told me repeatedly she’d never remarry. It only happens once, she always claimed, falling in love that way. I’m grateful I had it at all. Some people never do.

While I liked the idea of that once-in-a-lifetime love, I wanted her to be wrong too, so she could love someone again. But what did I know? I’d certainly never been in love, and I’d never had anyone say he was in love with me. Given the two offers from men I’d had in the last week, it didn’t seem as if love was on the near horizon, either. Joey had invited me to run off to Chicago with him without even so much as a kiss, and Enzo had offered me a luxury apartment, for free, with the idea that we could use it for uninterrupted nights of illicit pleasure. But despite telling me how much he wanted me all the time, he wasn’t murmuring any words of real affection. Once, he’d even admitted to wanting to kiss me one minute and strangle me the next.

And what about my own feelings?

Last week I’d been willing to overlook the fact that Enzo had a fiancée—it had almost seemed like a fun little twist in the game. I’d sort of convinced myself that it really didn’t matter, and a few fiery hot sexual escapades with a gangster seemed like the perfect way to kick off my new life as a flapper.

But was it?

I slapped my hands over my face. What was wrong with me? I was getting everything I’d wanted, wasn’t I? Enzo had made good on his promise and come through with the apartment, that beautiful apartment at the Statler with a view of the park, my own bathroom, my own space. Would I take my meals in the dining room there? Order breakfast in my room? At the thought of food, my belly rumbled, and I knew I’d feel better if I ate something.

&nbs

p; Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I counted to three and righted myself. My vision clouded a bit, so I closed my eyes and counted again. When I opened them, the room was still. Getting slowly to my feet, I shuffled toward the dresser and looked at myself in the mirror.

I couldn’t help groaning when I saw my reflection. Not only was my red hair tangled and matted, but I’d neglected to remove my eye makeup, which was smudged around my eyes like a raccoon mask, and I’d put my nightgown on backward. As I pulled it over my head, I remembered wearing it the night I’d been with Enzo in the Packard. I tossed it into my hamper. It needed to be cleaned.

#

I spent the day doing household chores with Molly, who was glad to help me out as long as I kept my promise to her about going to the movies without Mary Grace. Daddy had disappeared after breakfast, saying he was emptying the office at the garage of his things and moving them to his new space, and not to hold supper for him. My sisters said goodbye, but I ignored him. We still hadn’t exchanged more than two words since he’d forbidden me to move out.

All afternoon Molly and I laundered the linens, scrubbed the bathroom, mopped the kitchen floor, washed the windows with newspaper and vinegar, and took the rugs outside to beat them. With each swish of the mop and pillowcase pinned on the line, I fretted about Joey. What would he do? What would I do in his place?