Iron Cast (4 page)

“Sounds more like you,” Johnny said.

“What can I say?” Corinne shrugged. “I'm her role model.”

Ada rolled her eyes, and Johnny flashed a smile. He was striking rather than handsome, with a light, ruddy complexion, a dash of gray at the temples, and a brash grin that inspired confidence in even the wariest of business associates. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he stayed away from silk suits and flashy cuff links, opting for attire that wouldn't look out of place on a horse ranch. Ada had asked him about it once, and he'd laughed and given a vague reply that didn't really answer her question.

“Good to have you back,” he told her. “Corinne is unbearable without you. All she does is mumble obscure poetry and drink.”

“I can't help that she's the fun one,” Corinne said.

“You really all right, kid?” Johnny asked, looking at Ada. She wondered if there was something in her expression that told the tale of her sleepless nights huddled in the corner of that godforsaken cell. Everything was so much better here, surrounded by oak and pine and the pungent scent of cloves.

But that wasn't something she would say out loud, not to Johnny. Anyway, Gabriel was watching her with his dark eyes and slightly raised eyebrows.

“Everything's copacetic, boss,” she said.

Johnny's lips twisted. He was fiddling with a pocketknife on his desk, which might have been ominous in any other context, but Ada knew that Johnny only ever used it as a letter opener. It had been a gift from his predecessor.

“You two up for a set tonight?” he asked. “We haven't had a decent night's run without you, Ada.”

Ada hesitated, thinking longingly of her bed. Her entire body was pulsing with exhaustion, and her violin hadn't been tuned in two weeks.

“We've got Charlie on loan from the Red Cat,” Corinne said, nudging her.

Ada elbowed her back but couldn't repress a smile. “Why not?”

“Perfect,” Johnny said. “You go on at nine. Gabriel, go tell Danny that I'm expecting Senator Jacobs and his wife tonight. Keep my table clear.”

Gabriel nodded and stood up. He followed Ada and Corinne out of Johnny's office.

“You ever seen a show before?” Ada asked him.

“Hemopath shows are illegal,” he replied.

Corinne snorted. “Someone should tell the senator that,” she said. “He'll be so disappointed.”

Gabriel ignored her. They had reached the common room, and he paused at the base of the stairwell, watching Ada with the wrinkle of a frown in his forehead.

“Didn't you just break out of Haversham?” he asked.

“So?” Ada crossed her arms, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

“And now you're going on stage in front of some of the city's wealthiest, most upright citizens?”

“This is the Cast Iron,” Corinne said, looping her arm through Ada's again. “It's always safe here.”

“Besides, if they were such upright citizens, they wouldn't be at an illegal hemopath show,” Ada said.

Gabriel shrugged, though his expression gave no hint as to whether the gesture was in agreement or uninterest. He started up the stairs without further comment.

“He's going to be a killjoy,” Corinne said once the panel had slid shut behind him. “I can tell.”

Ada laughed and tugged her toward their bedroom to get ready.

Show nights in the Cast Iron always started the same. Seats began to fill up fast after eight o'clock, once dinner engagements had concluded and excuses had been made. Patrons ambled down Clarendon and Appleton alone and in pairs, slipping in through the red door only when the coast was clear, surrendering any iron as they arrived. The watchword for entry came at a high price and changed with every show. Usually it was the same old crowd—rich, bored regs who found hemopaths to be novelties or magicians or misunderstood souls, rather than diseased in the blood. The Cast Iron wasn't the only one of its kind, of course, but it had the best music by far. In this day and age, the music was what mattered.

In the old days the Cast Iron had been a quiet, unremarkable
pub. Its patrons had been the intellectuals and idealists of Boston, men without a penny to their name but enough on their minds to keep the fire in the hearth burning well into the night. When he took over, Johnny had dragged the club into the modern era, and now its spectacular shows were the worst-kept secret in Boston.

Ada waited backstage with the other musicians, her violin on her lap and her fingers intertwined with Charlie Lewis's. They sat on a threadbare sofa, talking in hushed voices while the rest of the band pretended not to eavesdrop.

“I'm just saying that Corinne should have told me what was going on,” he said. “Maybe I could have helped.”

“I wouldn't have wanted you to help,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

“What?” He leaned forward, tilting his head to better see her face. Charlie was lean and rangy, with close-cropped hair and eyes that caught the light like a dark prism. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the tattoo of a twisting, leafless tree on the tawny brown skin of his left forearm.

“I meant—Corinne had it under control,” Ada said.

“That's not what you said.”

Ada plucked at the E string on her violin, wishing fervently that she hadn't spoken. This was not a conversation she wanted to have backstage, surrounded by their fellow songsmiths, with a severe lack of sleep draining her better judgment.

“Can't we just forget it?” she asked. “At least for tonight?”

Charlie regarded her for another few seconds, then nodded and leaned back. Ada squeezed his hand and rested her head on his shoulder in relief. She'd first met Charlie almost a year ago, when she and Corinne had attended a show at the Red Cat with Johnny. She'd never heard anyone play a French horn like Charlie could.
She figured he probably knew that, considering his cool confidence in asking her out the next day, drawling his sultry Southern accent and winking like they shared a secret.

In retrospect, she liked how effortless it had been. Being with Charlie was easy, and these days, precious few things in her life were.

The stage door opened, and Corinne stuck her head in. She had a half-empty gin and tonic in hand and was wearing her favorite evening dress. It was pale pink and shimmery with tiny beads, capped at the shoulders and fluttering around her calves. A gold-and-silver headache band glimmered over her dark hair. The entire getup was in stark contrast to her usual fare of whatever wrinkled garment she stumbled over first in the morning. Tonight she was onstage, and when Corinne put on a show, she liked to shine the brightest.

“You all ready?” she asked.

The musicians gave their assent and started filing through the door. When Ada passed Corinne, she lifted her left hand to Corinne's right for their signature handshake. They tapped their fingertips together twice. A brief touch, easily overlooked. Ada didn't know how it had been possible to miss such a simple gesture so fiercely.

She took her spot stage left, a few feet away from Corinne, who gave her a broad smile. Corinne was dazzling under the stage lights, the beads on her dress glinting with every small movement. Ada smiled back and propped her violin under her chin. Her own dress of midnight-blue silk was simple in comparison, but Ada didn't mind. Subtlety had its own distinction amid the flair of Boston's nightlife.

The faint aroma of spicy hors d'oeuvres and bittersweet
beverages filled the room, mingled with perfume and cigarette smoke. The club was packed tonight, elbow to elbow with men in black suits and women in glittering dresses. The Cast Iron was small and humble in comparison to the Red Cat, its main competitor, but that didn't stop its loyal patrons from putting on the ritz for every performance. The lights were almost blinding, and Ada could barely make out Johnny at his corner table, entertaining the nervous senator and his wife. For Johnny the evening shows were all business, though he still refused to wear a dinner jacket. Jackson, also underdressed for the occasion, was sitting by Johnny, halfway through a beer. She noticed Gabriel at a table near the stage, though he didn't have a drink in front of him.

Corinne stepped up to the microphone, which was custom-made from brass and carbon. She didn't even have to speak before the crowd fell silent.

“Welcome to the Cast Iron” was all she said.

Ada recognized her cue and sent the first mournful note into the air.

The musicians rarely rehearsed together for these shows. It was widely believed that a more spontaneous sound led to a more spectacular experience. Even though she'd played with Charlie only on the rare occasions when he wasn't needed at the Red Cat, she knew he would find an entrance and intertwine with her melody. The goal, of course, was harmony, but not just in the music—in the emotions as well.

Ada always started low, laying down loss and longing like a delicate lace. She kept her melody in the minor key, and for almost three minutes hers was the only sound in the room. Charlie's horn opened soft, for a few bars matching her tone; then he began drawing out a new thread, a vague sense of hope that Ada recognized
from the first time she'd ever heard him play. She forced herself to focus, following his lead into a wistful place. The other musicians were playing too, keeping the pace, tying everything together, but it was clearly Ada and Charlie's show.

The faces in the crowd were slack with the proffered feelings. Ada could sense the emotions that her fellow songsmiths were churning out, but with a little effort she could avoid being overwhelmed by them, letting the gentle melancholy slide off her like rain. It was different for the regs, who wouldn't be able to put up more than token resistance even if they wanted to. Hemopathy for public consumption had been banned in Boston by city law six months ago, but the shows had continued behind locked doors, and attendance had barely faltered. There was something irresistible about the experience.

Corinne moved closer to the microphone, her voice a gentle, swaying murmur. She was reciting a poem that Ada didn't recognize. Something about an idle king and barren crags. The stage lights seemed to dim. Suddenly the ceiling above them was a blanket of stars, with a silver moon draped in gossamer threads of light. The audience burst into murmurs of appreciation and awe, but no one onstage broke stride.

Corinne kept reciting, her voice only a hint louder than the music that enveloped them. She spoke of sinking stars, dark broad seas, and men who strove with gods. The constellations came to life. A thunderous Leo shook the heavens in a silent roar. The Twins danced together across the captured sky. The Water Bearer poured his load, sending a river of sparkling light across the patrons.

The entire show was an intricate dance. Even the performers were never entirely sure whether Corinne was matching the music or whether Ada and Charlie were following her lead. Finally the stars began to dim. Corinne cast Ada a surreptitious glance, and
Ada dipped her head slightly in recognition. She and Corinne had never played this particular illusion before, but she had an idea where Corinne was going.

Corinne held up her hand and the other musicians fell silent. Ada drew out a long note, then slid into a new melody. Her hope wasn't as good as Charlie's, but she'd been told that her nostalgia was masterful. She pushed it into the room, shut her eyes, and envisioned the feeling like a mist, settling over each person.

Ada had never wanted to be a star. There were certain doors that would never be opened to a girl whose parents had formed what society considered an unspeakable union. She didn't believe in dreaming for the impossible, but the illusions and emotions that she and Corinne could weave together—those were more real to her than the heat of the spotlight, than the gushing of the crowd.

She let herself be consumed by the strings of her violin, the curving action of the bow. If she thought too hard about the enigmatic talent that gave her these abilities, it would elude her. Instead she focused on the mechanics of her music and let a distant part of her mind touch that indescribable place beyond. The people below her would suddenly be remembering that perfect childhood birthday party or that first sunset kiss.

She escorted them past the memory with a final keening note. Then, following a clash of cymbals behind her, she sent them spinning into frenetic, delirious bliss. People leapt to the black-and-white tiled dance floor, hooting and swinging their partners with verve. A chance to remember and a chance to forget. It was what kept people coming to the Cast Iron, night after night.

Once the dancing was well under way, Ada rested her instrument and let the other musicians take over. Corinne had already hopped off the stage at the behest of an eager partner. She was kicking up her
heels and laughing wildly, drink sloshing in her hand. Ada smiled and stepped down to the floor. Her exhaustion was a distant memory now. Playing her violin always transported her well beyond her own limitations.

“You gonna pity a poor Southern boy and take him for a spin?”

Ada whirled to see Charlie, sitting on the edge of the stage behind her, his right foot swinging in time to the music. His grin was bright under the stage lights, and there was no trace of their argument in his features. Maybe tomorrow they would have to revisit it, but tonight the Cast Iron was effervescent with laughter and gleaming dresses and clinking glasses. Tomorrow was so far away.

Ada smiled and took Charlie's hand, pulling him onto the dance floor.

After a couple of hours of dancing, Corinne abandoned the floor in search of some quiet. She made her way through the gauntlet of admiration and introductions and pleas for another set. She went through the storage room, waved at Gordon, then took the back door into the alley. If she was honest with herself, she wasn't entirely surprised to find Gabriel there, leaning against the wall. She had noticed him leaving before the performance had ended. Corinne saw the red glint of cigarette embers and heard him exhale.