He nodded and slid into the driver’s seat, stealing a glance at my legs before starting the car. I smoothed the dress over my thighs and pressed my knees together.

Neither of us spoke on the way downtown.

The block he parked on looked perfectly ordinary, lined with darkened sandwich and coffee shops, a florist, a shoe store, and a photography studio. Steam rose from grates on the cement, and the electric streetlights cast a yellowish glow.

“Where’s the club?” I asked as we got out of the car.

“Right over there, I think.” We walked down the street and he pointed to the florist’s door, which had the number 23 painted on it. “See that opening in the sidewalk? That’s a stairwell to the cellar, where the entrance is.”

We descended the cement steps. At the foot of the staircase was a massive metal door, which Joey knocked on.

No answer.

He pounded a little harder.

Nothing.

I was about to tell him to forget it, this couldn’t be the place, when we heard a few clicking sounds, like the door was being unlocked from inside. I pushed it open, and we stepped inside a dark, closet-like space with a second door ahead of us.

“That wasn’t so hard,” I said. But when the big metal door slammed behind us, we were trapped in the blackness. Immediately my heart began thudding, but within seconds, a tiny slot at eye level—well, more Joey’s eye level than mine—opened up.

A pair of eyes appeared. “Yeah?”

“Is this Club 23?” Joey asked.

“Get lost.” The slot closed.

“Angel sent me,” I said loudly. The slot opened again.

“Who said that?”

“Me. Down here.”

The eyes found me and the voice attached to them laughed.

“Listen, can we come in or not?” I asked irritably.

“Sure, you can come in,” the voice said. “If Angel sent you, you’re in.” The door opened, and we were directed down a dark, low-ceilinged hallway with a red-tiled floor and black-painted cement walls toward the club’s main room. The music grew louder as we approached. At the end of the hall were two red velvet curtains, tied back on either side.

My heart raced as I took in the club’s cozy underground opulence. The front third of the room was dominated by an elevated stage, where a dozen musicians shook the walls with a driving rhythm. The rectangular dance floor in front of it was two tiers lower than where I was standing and packed with dancers. Cocktail tables edged the floor, and crescent-shaped booths with plush red velvet seating rimmed the next two tiers. The walls were also lined with a few intimate, red-curtained booths, and the room was crowded with elegantly dressed men and women, many of them dancing or smoking, all of them drinking. The dark wood bar ran the length of the back wall, and the cocktails were served in real glasses, not mugs or teacups like I’d seen in other joints. White linen dressed the tables, and the waiters wore tuxedoes.

A hostess seated us at a small cocktail table near the dance floor. Joey ordered a whisky and asked if I wanted one. “I’ll have Canadian Club. With ice.” In speakeasies it was important to order your poison by name—otherwise you couldn’t be sure what was in it. The hostess disappeared and we sat listening to the music for a few minutes, my eyes scanning the room for Angel or one of his sons.

Our drinks arrived, and Joey handed the waitress some cash. She winked at him, and I didn’t blame her.

I sipped my whisky. “Swell suit. Too bad you couldn’t afford a tie.”

He took two big swallows and set down the glass with a clunk. “I don’t prefer neckties. And now, hard as it may be, I think you should tear your eyes from me and look over your shoulder. Is that Angel DiFiore watching you?”

A spidery chill crawled up my back. I turned in my chair, and there he was, in a black tuxedo, raising a glass to me in a silent toast. He drank, set the glass down, and headed my way.

I took a gulp of whisky. “Yes. That’s him.”

Joey watched him approach with his chin lifted, eyes sharp.

In a moment, Angel appeared at my side. “Miss O’Mara. What a pleasure to see you again, and how beautiful you look.” He offered his hand and I saw no choice but to take it. Turning to Joey, he said, “Angel DiFiore.”

“Joe Lupo.”

Tags: Melanie Harlow Speak Easy Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net