Diva (The Flappers)

Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin



JEROME




All his life, Jerome had dreamed of crowds screaming his name. But this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

“Jerome!” they yelled from outside, the sounds barely audible where he was standing—onstage with the rest of the band in the newest and hottest club in Greenwich Village. A strong spotlight shone in his eyes and a microphone craned over the keys of the glorious baby grand in front of him. The Chaise Lounge was the swankiest joint he’d ever played—and with places like the Green Mill and the Opera House on his résumé, that was saying something.

“Come fight like a man!” called a fellow built like a freight truck.

“Yeah, you lousy piker!”

Some of the folks were visible through the brand-new glass windows, but most stood in clumps down at the corner of the street, blocked off by bodyguards and rope.

“Spade punk!”

Jerome winced. Even empty, the club gave off an air of smoky luxury. Black vines climbed up the flocked lavender wallpaper toward the high ceiling. A few autographed photos hung over the silky, wine-colored booths—candid shots of glamorous folks like film actress Barbara La Marr and boxing champ Jack Dempsey.

There was no bar—the booze came up from the basement through a carefully hidden dumbwaiter in the back. But Jerome knew from experience that the Scotch around here was older than half the club’s patrons.

Apparently, scandal was good for business. After that heart-stopping night at the Opera House weeks earlier, when Carlito Macharelli had died, clubs had been scrambling over themselves to be the first to showcase “notorious killer” Gloria Carmody’s colored beau. Jerome had never dreamed the Chaise would want him. A clear line ran through Manhattan at 110th Street, a line that blacks were supposed to stay north of. You had to be a star like Duke Ellington or Bessie Smith to be allowed to perform all the way down in Greenwich Village.

And yet here Jerome was.

Little Joe, the surprisingly fat manager, had been nothing but welcoming. “Take your time putting together something worthwhile,” he’d told Jerome. “I know everyone wants you because of your girl, but I want you because you’re also one of the best pianists in town.”

So Jerome spent three weeks practicing with the band and knew they had a stellar show. Part of him wished Evan could have been his trumpet player, just like old times, but his friend was too busy making Jerome’s little sister, Vera, happy. And that was just fine—better than fine, really.

His horn player, Roger, certainly wasn’t Evan, but he had a nice smoothness to his style. Jerome had thrown himself into arranging “Rhapsody in Blue” for the band to play at their debut. He’d caught one of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra performances of the piece over the summer and been thunderstruck. It wasn’t classical music but it wasn’t quite jazz, either—it was something new, something American. It could have only happened here. Just like him and Gloria. Jerome had promised himself that if he ever had the opportunity, he’d lead his band in his own take on the piece.

The rest of his band was top-notch. But none of the pending success made up for how Jerome had gotten here in the first place: because his sweet, beautiful fiancée was in prison for shooting a man—a man who’d been about to shoot Jerome dead. He hadn’t been allowed to see her once since she’d been pried away from him.

Now Gloria was stuck under glass, though hopefully not for much longer. Her cousin, Clara, had promised to use her column at the Manhattanite to rave at the injustice of it all until Gloria was released. In the meantime, Jerome planned to work as many gigs as he could. He wanted to save enough money so that somehow, somewhere, he and Gloria could get married.

The Manhattanite had been selling like hotcakes these past few weeks. So many New Yorkers were rooting for him and Gloria. Jerome knew that many people were eager to see him play, but ten times that number were keen to hear Gloria. And those were the people he hoped would help free her from the big house.

But this crowd was different.

Jerome glanced out the night-darkened windows of the club again and saw that some of the people were holding up signs:

RACE MIXING IS COMMUNISM!

GO BACK TO HARLEM WHERE YOU BELONG!

CHAISE IS FULL OF NEGRO LOVERS!

And those were the nice ones.

Jerome glanced at his band. “Looks like a different sort of audience tonight, fellas.”

The men’s eyes flicked to the windows and back. No one said a word. Arnie, the young bassist, crossed himself.

Little Joe waddled into the lounge from his office, looking natty in a custom-made black suit and matching bowler. He walked up to the windows and stood for a minute without moving.

“Boss?” Jerome called. “When you want to start letting the birds in?”

Little Joe turned and pulled off his bowler. He combed his fingers through the few gray hairs on his head. “Jerome, you’re a gifted musician—we both know that. And I don’t care about the color of your skin. Talent is talent. But this …” He looked back out at the protesters. “It’s not something my club can handle right now.”

“What about the show?” Jerome asked.

“Ain’t gonna be one. Not with that mob out there. We’d have a riot.”

Jerome clenched his fists. Couldn’t Little Joe see that stopping the band’s performance was exactly what those monsters wanted? But then he glanced at his band. They were all breathing deep sighs of relief, and Arnie wiped sweat off his brow. The boy was barely old enough to shave. “I understand,” Jerome said with a curt nod.

“C’mon, I’ll sneak you out the back. I’ll take you one at a time—that crowd’s bound to notice if you all leave at once.”

Little Joe led Jerome into the backstage area, which was strewn with wooden chairs, half-empty bottles of hooch, and overflowing ashtrays. “I’ll wait while you get out of that straitjacket.” In the band’s dressing room, Jerome changed out of his smart white suit and back into his tattered trousers and short-sleeved button-down. His suit looked forlorn where it hung on the rack in the corner. He’d have to come back and get it later.

At the stage door the manager counted a few bills from a fat roll. “Something for your trouble, kid.”

A year ago Jerome wouldn’t have accepted it. He hadn’t even played! But money had been scarce since Gloria got locked up six weeks before. Thanks to Puccini De Luca’s arrest and Carlito Macharelli’s death, Gloria and Jerome had never gotten their promised payment for performing at the Opera House.

And now this. Jerome didn’t know how he was going to make the rent at his roach-infested boardinghouse.

So Jerome thanked Little Joe and crammed the bills into his pocket. Then he slipped out the back door and into the night.

The stage door led to a deserted side street. Jerome pulled his hat down and turned left in the direction of the subway a few blocks away. He’d nearly reached the corner of the street when he noticed the man.

The man was leaning against a car far too expensive to be parked anywhere in this neighborhood. He was dressed immaculately in a tan suit and blue silk tie, his graying russet hair shining in the light from the streetlamp. Jerome had only met the man once, but he’d have recognized him anywhere.

Lowell Carmody. Gloria’s father.

Jerome crossed the street and walked up to the fat black car. “Mr. Carmody, what are you doing here?”

“Came to see your big show.”

Jerome gestured down the street. “You’re welcome to join my eager fans.”

“I’m a lot more welcome than you.” Gloria’s father squinted. “Looks like a few have figured out what happened to their favorite piano player.”

Startled, Jerome turned and looked. The street was dark, and he didn’t see anyone. Then, before he realized what was happening, Lowell Carmody had opened the back door of the car and shoved Jerome inside.

Jerome brought his hands up too late to stop his shoulder from hitting the car’s plush floor mat. Gloria’s dad picked him up by the feet and heaved him the rest of the way, then got in behind him and slammed the door. “Drive!” he barked out.

The chauffeur shifted the car smoothly into gear and took off with alarming speed.

Jerome climbed up from the floor and settled back on the leather upholstery. He found himself sitting across from a steely-eyed goon whose muscles strained beneath his black suit jacket. Lowell Carmody slid onto the seat beside Jerome. He fished a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, mopped at his face, folded the handkerchief, and put it away.

“I don’t mean any disrespect, sir,” Jerome said, “but what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Mr. Carmody said nothing, just turned and stared out the tinted window.

With a resigned sigh, Jerome joined him in watching the world pass by. Minutes passed, then more minutes, and soon Jerome realized they were no longer in Manhattan. Instead of sleek skyscrapers, they were surrounded by sprawling, flat warehouses and rusty cranes and rigs. In the distance Jerome could see a skyline that was a sad imitation of what they’d left behind on the other side of the Hudson River. A clock hovered over one of the many factories, next to a billboard painted to look like an enormous tube of toothpaste, COLGATE emblazoned across it in big white letters.

For so many musicians, playing in Manhattan was a dream—the hopping clubs, the twinkling lights. It was easy to forget that a smog-belching nightmare like New Jersey was so close by.

Mr. Carmody finally turned to Jerome. “I’m tempted to just push you out of the car and have Elroy here shoot you.”

Jerome swallowed hard.

“But I don’t have to do that,” Mr. Carmody went on with a self-satisfied smile. “I’ve got the law on my side. I’ve had Gloria declared my ward, since she is clearly incapable of making her own decisions.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” They veered away from the main highway and their surroundings became increasingly rural, with rows of corn and dilapidated barns on either side of the road.

“It means I control her life and her world. And you are no longer a part of it.” Lowell Carmody’s smile had turned sinister. “If you come near Gloria and I hear of it, I will have you arrested. I’ll have the cops throw you into a cell where no one will ever find you. Or I’ll have you killed.”

Jerome looked desperately out the window, but the only signs of life he could see were a few matted, feral-looking barn cats slinking through the night.

Mr. Carmody exhaled and glanced at Jerome with a smug twinkle in his eye. “That bigoted mob back there? That was my doing. I’m the one who leaked where you were playing to the Klan, and I’ll do it again, and again. Pretty soon there won’t be a club in Manhattan that will risk hiring you.”

The car turned onto a barren stretch of road with nothing but dirt and dying grass on either side. “So from this day forward, you will have nothing to do with Gloria—or New York City—for the rest of your life. Or else I will make sure there’s no life for you to have. Understand me?”

Jerome opened his mouth to respond—how could Gloria’s father be so cruel?—but Mr. Carmody waved him into silence. “I’m serious.” With a nod, he signaled the scowling thug sitting across from them. The goon seized Jerome’s arm with a hand like a steel cuff.

“I can’t say it was nice to see you, Jerome Johnson. Elroy?”

The thug threw the car door wide open, banging it against the chassis so that it swung violently to and fro on its hinges. Jerome could hear the gravel crunching under the car’s tires and the wind roaring by. “This is where you’ll be leaving us,” Mr. Carmody said.

Jerome thrashed as hard as he could against Elroy’s grip and managed to connect one of his feet with Mr. Carmody’s face. But then both men grabbed him and heaved, and then Jerome was airborne.

He was aware of the door slamming behind him, aware of tires squealing and of the bright full moon above him, bathing the grubby marshland alongside the road like a spotlight … and then he hit the ground. Hard.

He didn’t even have time to summon one last memory of Gloria before darkness engulfed him like a black velvet curtain rushing across a stage.





GLORIA




Cushy leather chairs didn’t belong in federal prison. But then, neither did Gloria.

Surprisingly, her cell was a lot better than where she’d been living in Harlem. Her new desk was made of varnished wood rather than steel, she actually had a mattress with springs, and the three meals they brought her each day weren’t half bad. Before her mother went home to Chicago, Beatrice managed to use her connections to have Gloria moved from the county jail to a holding cell in the FBI headquarters. Thanks to her, being incarcerated was a lot less miserable than it might have been.

Now Gloria sat at a long cherrywood table in an empty bureau conference room. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air. She wasn’t sure why Hank had called this meeting.

Special Agent in Charge Hank Phillips walked through the door carrying his briefcase and a cardboard box. He wore his usual crisp black suit, white collared shirt, thin black tie, and smart pair of oxfords. His dark hair, light brown eyes, tanned skin, and muscled build made it easy to understand how her ex–best friend, Lorraine, had fallen for him.

Of course, Lorraine had thought Hank was a bartender—not an undercover FBI agent. That’s how stupid Lorraine was. She’d probably thought Hank stayed in such fantastic shape by bench-pressing bottles of hooch instead of barbells.

Without even a hello, Hank set the box down and then laid its contents out on the table. There was a black garment bag and a velvet jewelry box. A pair of long white gloves and a pair of silver T-bar heels. When Hank pulled out a beaded lime-green clutch, Gloria finally spoke up. “That would really bring out the green in your eyes, Hanky.”

“My eyes are brown!” Hank glared. “If you call me that again, I may just have to bring one of the other jailbirds to this party.”

“There are parties in jail? I wish I’d known. I would’ve worn my best dress. You know—the one with only three holes in it.”

He snapped open the clutch to reveal something a much more interesting shade of green: a wad of cash, more twenty-dollar bills than Gloria could count. “Now, is the comedy act over? ”

Gloria gave a silent nod, her eyes wide. Hank opened the garment bag as well. Gloria could see a sparkling bodice that matched the clutch perfectly. After a month and a half of wearing gray prison rags, the bright dress almost hurt her eyes.

“You’re going to the Hamptons to help us figure out the story on a business mogul called Forrest Hamilton,” Hank said.

He opened his briefcase and handed Gloria a photograph. It was a candid photo taken at a party. A man puffed on a cigar while watching an exquisitely beautiful blonde spread her hands, probably in the midst of telling some wild story. His suit was classy in the way only simple but extremely expensive material could be. The man was very handsome, with dark hair slicked away from his face and even darker glittering eyes. He had a sharp, straight nose and a square jaw and could easily have been in motion pictures if he wanted to.

“Business mogul?” Gloria said doubtfully. “He looks awfully young.”

Hank nodded. “He’s a Broadway producer, and he can’t be older than twenty-five. The guy just turned up one day, saying he’s from the Midwest, and went from penniless nobody to moneybags somebody in three shakes of a lamb’s tail. He’s got a servant who looks like he hurts people for fun, and a big swanky house he’s renting. We don’t know his game—he’s produced nothing but flops and yet he keeps raking in the dough. Until we find out where that cash is coming from, he’s just a person of interest.”

“But what does any of that have to do with me?”

“Our boy Forrest loves singers and celebrities, and these days”—Hank slapped down a copy of the Manhattanite, the glossy tabloid her cousin, Clara, had used to make Gloria an icon of flapperdom—“you’re both. He’ll be drawn to you like a fly to honey. And you’ll figure out what his secret is.”

Gloria glanced again at the photograph in her hands. This boy certainly didn’t look like a criminal. He actually reminded her a little of her best friend, Marcus—she’d be willing to bet that, like Marcus, Forrest would have dimples when he gave a real smile.

But thinking of Marcus led her to thinking about a far handsomer, darker-skinned man: Jerome.

It had been an agonizing month and a half apart, but one day soon she hoped to hold him, kiss him, and stare into those deep-brown eyes of his that said he knew her better than anyone she’d ever met. She still sang as much as she could—jail cells actually had pretty swell acoustics—but she desperately missed Jerome playing piano beside her. If she had to dig up the dirt on one wealthy, handsome young fool to free herself and get back into Jerome’s arms, well …

“If I do this, and I get you what you’re looking for, can I go free?”

Hank nodded. “We’ll cut you a deal, I promise. But let me be clear: If you fail to turn up dirt on Forrest, you’re going back into the big house. And not these cushy FBI digs. Nothing your parents do or say will help you then. You’ll have to serve real time.”

Gloria glanced at the box and sighed. Really, she didn’t have to think about her decision for too long. “Have you got a garter in there somewhere? No self-respecting flapper would leave her prison cell without one.”



“Oh, congratulations, darling!” the pixielike woman in the silver Chanel dress gushed. “You have no idea how utterly elated my girlfriends and I were when we saw the news in the Times.” The woman stood across from Gloria near one of the tiny tables covered in fine blue tablecloths that were arranged around the dance floor at the Conch Shell, a hopping beachfront restaurant. The life preservers, colorful shells, and anchors that hung on the wood-paneled walls were a playful nod to the ocean lying just beyond the restaurant’s back patio.

“We toasted your release right then and there at the newsstand!” the dame went on, practically yelling over the roar of the band playing hot jazz on the stage beyond the dance floor. “Champagne would’ve been best, but at nine in the morning, a flask of gin had to do.”

The woman speaking was a tiny wisp of a thing—shorter than the petite Gloria, even—and very, very beautiful. Her dark brown hair was pinned to the side to reveal spectacular diamond earrings and even more spectacular cheekbones. Her nearly black eyes glowed with an aloof sophistication.

A year before, a woman this glamorous wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to a bluenose deb like Gloria. But now she was one in a long line of starlets, journalists, and artists all eager to congratulate Gloria on her sudden release from prison. Gloria felt an instant sense of belonging among these impossibly charismatic flappers and swells. A far cry from the first time she’d entered the Green Mill back in Chicago, when she hadn’t even bobbed her hair.

Before Gloria reached the mahogany bar when she first arrived, a black man in a crisp white shirt, black vest, and blue bow tie had appeared beside her with a dirty martini. “Giggle water’s on the house for you tonight, darlin’.” He gave her a nod. “It’s a brave thing you done for Jerome Johnson,” he whispered. “Something none of us’ll ever forget.”

“Thank you,” Gloria had said. She had finished the drink quickly and set the glass down at the bar—just in time for a handsome man in a seersucker suit to sweep her to the dance floor, where she moved through the steps of the Baltimore Buzz, amazed she could remember them. Gloria glanced at the sparkling dancers around her, smoke filling the air and spinning in endless curlicues as it flowed up to the ceiling fans above. There was glitter, glamour, and music—and Gloria was at the center of it in her brilliant Paquin dress and flawless makeup. What else could a girl ask for?

Well, besides her fiancé.

It had only been when she’d caught the eye of the only grim-faced fellow in the crowd that she had remembered she didn’t belong here. She had come here with a bureau chaperone, and she had a mission: Find Forrest Hamilton and grill him for information.

The man, Terzy, had tapped his watch and continued scowling at Gloria. She’d excused herself from the dance floor and started to search for the handsome host of the party, but enthusiastic admirers like her pretty new friend here weren’t making the task easy.

“You’re such a darling, darling,” a young brunette not much older than Gloria said to her while sipping from a silver flask.

“As are you,” Gloria replied.

“Well, I know. But really, you’re truly a dear.” The brunette had a heart-shaped face and almond-shaped eyes. She swayed back and forth, the fringe from her dress swishing ever so slightly.

“And your name is …?” Gloria asked.

Just then, a curmudgeonly man stepped out of the crowd to stand next to her new acquaintance. His light brown hair was shot through with gray, and his wrinkles made him look ten years older than he probably was. He seemed old enough to be her father.

“Ruby, I told you not to go wandering off like that,” he said in a gravelly voice.

A bit of the light went out of Ruby’s sparkling eyes. “Oh, sorry, dear.”

The man sniffed and straightened his brown bow tie. “Just remember that these are your friends.”

“You’re in the theater business, too, Marty. It’s not like producers and actors are different animals.”

“No, they’re different species.”

Ruby suddenly seemed to remember Gloria. She gave a bell-like laugh and her cheeks got rosy. “Oh, how rude of me! My darling, dear new friend, this is my husband, Marty Hayworth. Marty, this is Gloria Carmody. You know. The singer.”

Marty acknowledged Gloria with a gruff nod. “From the tabloids.”

“You’re a Broadway producer?” Gloria couldn’t imagine Marty with such a glamorous job; he was about as flat and dull as his wife was incandescent. “Have you produced anything I would’ve seen?”

Ruby smiled graciously. “Well, he produced my first show. We finished our run a few weeks ago. Maybe you’ve heard of it—The Girl from Yesterday.”

Oh my! Gloria had read all about the show in the Manhattanites Clara religiously sent her, one every week. Ruby had received nothing but love-letter reviews for her portrayal of the ingenue Violet, a fierce but vulnerable young ballerina-turned-cancan-dancer in Gilded Age Paris. Ruby was a bona fide star at the beginning of an exciting career.

This brunette who’d had too much to drink and thought Gloria was her newest and dearest friend was Ruby Hayworth?

As much as Gloria hated to admit it, she was insanely jealous.

Her chaperone, Terzy, stared at her from across the dance floor and twitched in an alarming way. Was he trying to wink? Finally Terzy beckoned with his pudgy arm.

“I’ve heard fantastic things about that show!” Gloria smiled at the Hayworths. “You’ll have to excuse me—but I promise to be in the front row when your next musical opens.”

“I’m not sure when or what that will be,” Ruby replied. “But I’ll make sure the box office boys set aside a ticket for you, darling.”

Terzy narrowed his eyes at Gloria when she reached him in the middle of the crowd. “What are you cooling your heels with the starlet for?” The short, stout FBI agent hunched over his glass of seltzer and glared at the riotous guests. “Just talk to this Forrest character so I can get home and go to bed.”

“Have you seen him?” Gloria had taken every possible chance to scan the room for the man from the picture since she’d arrived, but she hadn’t caught sight of him yet.

Terzy hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Open your eyes.”

Through the open back doors, Gloria saw a few couples at patio tables, loudly toasting the sea. Beyond them, sitting alone at one of the smaller tables, was Forrest. He was bent over a little notebook, scribbling, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Gloria took a deep breath, more nervous than she’d ever been onstage. Her entire future with Jerome hinged on her ability to get Forrest to spill his secrets. She took her red lipstick out of her purse and smoothed it over her lips. Every battle required a little war paint.

With a nod to Terzy, Gloria walked out onto the candlelit patio. After the noise of the party, the clacking of her heels against the flagstones seemed too loud. Gloria could hear the waves crashing in the distance but couldn’t see them; it was dark out here. A wind blew her dress taut against her legs.

Forrest smiled as she approached. He was even handsomer in person. Gloria had been right about the dimples.

He quickly stretched a black ribbon across the binding of his leather notebook and closed it. “It’s a bit embarrassing, I know, sneaking out to write at my own shindig. But I always get my best ideas when I’m at parties.” He cocked his head toward the dancers inside. “How much closer can you get to a musical in the real world?”

It was the sort of thing Gloria would think but stop herself from saying, worried she’d sound pretentious. But with his earnest gaze, Forrest didn’t seem like a phony.

“Aren’t you a little young to be a Broadway producer?” Gloria asked. Up close, he looked barely older than she was.

“Nope. Being a producer only has one job requirement: money. And you can get your hands on that at any age. If you’re smart.” His brown eyes skimmed right over her sparkling green dress up to her face. With a black silk headband over her newly waved and bobbed hair and chandelier earrings, Gloria knew she looked good. “Aren’t you a little young to be an ex-con?” he asked.

“Trouble’s a lot easier to find than money,” Gloria countered. “And unlike money, sometimes trouble comes looking for you.”

“Ah, but yours is a special kind of trouble that only a special kind of dame could get into,” he said, laughing. He pulled a chair out for her. “Have a seat, rest your gams. I guess we can skip over introductions and right into congratulations. To you on your release from the big house and to me on the new show I’m financing.”

“You’re producing a new show?” she asked as she settled in beside him.

“That’s why I threw the party.” He lit a cigar with a gold-plated lighter, and the spicy smell of it filled the air. Cigar smoking was a habit Gloria had always associated with older men, but it suited Forrest just fine. “It’ll be called Moonshine Melody. It’s my third show, and hopefully my first success.” His gaze drifted away from her and back toward the crowd.

“What makes you think this one will be any different?” she asked, her tone playful.

Forrest pointed through the back door: Ruby was dancing with a young, good-looking fellow in a white suit. When she danced, Ruby had a charisma that made everyone else within ten feet disappear. “That’s what,” Forrest said.

“Ruby Hayworth?”

“The one and only. Manhattan would pay good money to watch Ruby Hayworth read the paper.” There was more than artistic admiration in Forrest’s face as he spoke.

“Stars like that don’t come cheap, I bet,” Gloria said. “You sure you can afford her?”

“Money’s no object for me, I’m happy to say.”

“But how is that true, if your other shows weren’t successful?” She’d hoped to be a little craftier about working this question into the conversation, but if she didn’t get Forrest talking, Terzy was going to drive her straight from this party back to prison.

Forrest’s dark eyes narrowed, but his face lost none of its good humor. “Why so interested? Are you thinking of becoming a producer?”

“Sure,” Gloria said with a flirtatious smile and a silent apology to Jerome. “Sounds like a pretty great gig, especially if I could be rich whether or not my shows did well.”

“It doesn’t really work that way. I haven’t been able to make much money at all off my shows.” He stretched his arms behind his head and gave a lazy smile. “I’ve actually lost a lot. But I’ve got to keep trying, right?”

“Why, though, if you’re losing money?”

“What else should I spend my wealth on? Why use money to buy useless baubles when I can use it to make something?”

“Most men your age think parties and baubles are more worthwhile than musicals.”

“Well, they’re free to think that. But personally? I love musicals,” Forrest proclaimed.

“But if you’re not making money off them, then where does all your wealth come from?” She scooted her chair closer to him. “It’s nothing illegal, is it?”

Forrest gave her a pitying look. “Oh, Gloria, you’re not very good at this at all, are you?” Gloria blinked, and he gave her another dimpled smile. “Tell you what, after this a bunch of us are driving out to stay at my mansion in Great Neck. It’s got so many rooms that I don’t think I’ve seen them all yet. Why don’t you join us?”

Gloria raised her eyebrows and looked at Terzy where he leaned against the doorjamb wearily. He glanced over at her and Forrest frequently and obviously.

Forrest laughed. “I know why you’re here, honey—the feds sent you and that stuffed shirt over there to spy on me.” Gloria swallowed hard. How did Forrest know? “But I don’t care about that; I’ve got nothing to hide. You’re a singer, right? And you seem like a swell dame who’s been cooped up for the past six weeks and could use a spot of fun. What do you say?”

Gloria glanced at Terzy, then back into Forrest’s good-natured eyes. If she went back with Terzy now, she’d have a whole lot of nothing to tell Hank. Jerome wouldn’t like her staying at another man’s house, but what better opportunity would she get to learn more about Forrest and free herself and Jerome of Tony Giaconi’s murder for good?

She stuck her hand out for Forrest to shake. “Count me in.”