The Edge of Lost (17 page)

27

I
t was an unshakable feeling. For the next several days the sense of being followed loomed over Shan. He became acutely aware of anyone emitting the slightest air of suspicion, whether seated on the streetcar or at a shoeshine, or strolling nearby in the city.

“Something wrong?” Lina had whispered at Mass yesterday morning, having caught him sneaking glances over his shoulder. He’d noticed a man in dark glasses several pews back, one of the few people not reading a hymnal with the rest of the congregation.

“Thought I saw an old friend,” Shan told her, and turned back around. He preferred not to worry the family any more than necessary. And he was especially glad he’d divulged nothing when the stranger in glasses rose with a blind man’s cane to navigate the aisle for Communion. Proof Shan was being paranoid. But how could he not be, with so many of his actions being tracked? No doubt the authorities were keeping an even closer watch on Nick.

Fearing an imminent takedown, Shan had twice attempted to call him, but without success. A good thing, really; it was wiser to speak in person, eliminating the chance of an operator listening in. Yet when he’d knocked at Nick’s apartment, nobody had answered.

Shan now lowered onto the sofa chair at home and focused on the orchestra music from the RCA radio. Lacking an appetite, he’d eaten very little at supper, claiming to have had a late lunch, and drank extra wine to settle his nerves. Only marginally effective.

“What is bothering you?” Mrs. Capello lowered her needlepoint. She was seated on the davenport beside her husband, whose mouth was moving while he read the paper as he practiced words in his head.

“Not a thing, Ma. Why do you ask?”

“You are up, down, up, down. Always looking out the window.”

In all honesty, Shan hadn’t realized it. After all, what was the point? Little could be seen in the darkness. Winter made eight o’clock look like ten.

Mrs. Capello flicked her hand toward him. “Go out, do something fun.”

She thought he felt cooped up. The problem was far from that simple, though it was a great excuse for his restlessness. He was about to borrow it when he recalled his discussion with Mr. Capello about the need to break away—an impulse that had fallen to the wayside.

“I’m happy right here. Anyway, it’s freezing outside.”

Mrs. Capello tsked. “This is New York, not the North Pole. Go to the city with a friend. It is almost Christmas. Even on a Monday there is much to do.”

From this, a thought tugged at his mind. Nick worked at the club on Mondays. It would be less crowded than on the weekend. At this relatively early hour, odds were high Nick could sneak away for a private talk. A few minutes were all Shan needed.

Feigning casualness, he said, “I suppose you’re right. I could go see who’s around. Maybe catch a picture show.” He rose to get his coat, and Mrs. Capello smiled. Satisfied by her feat, she returned to her needlepoint.

Mr. Capello looked up from his paper. “You should see that new film. The one with … Norma … eh, what is her name?”

“Shears,” Mrs. Capello said.

“It’s ‘Shearer,’ ” Lina corrected, coming down the stairs with her schoolbooks.

“Shearer?” her mother said. “That cannot be right.”

Shan was buttoning his coat as Lina said, “Mama, no actress in Hollywood would use ‘Shears.’ ”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a word for scissors.”

“How is ‘Shearer’ better? This is a person who takes wool off sheep.”

Mr. Capello sighed and returned to his articles, appearing regretful of what he had started. This wasn’t the first time his wife had battled over the logic of a film star’s name: such as why Joan Crawfish might be wrong, but Craw-Ford sounded like an automobile.

Shan had just put on his hat when Lina shot him a weary look that said,
Please, take me with you.

Before she could voice the plea, he hastened out the door.

 

As expected, the Royal had drawn fewer patrons tonight than on a typical Friday or Saturday. Still, more than half the tables on the main floor were filled. The same went for the dance floor, where couples waved, kicked, and winged their arms as the band played the “Black Bottom Stomp.”

Shan glanced around for suspicious eyes. He hated that his coming here would only affirm Barsetti’s assumptions.

“Door at the top,” a waiter said after guiding Shan to stairs that led to the club office.

“Thanks for your help.”

When the fellow lingered, Shan fished a dime out of his coat pocket and handed it over.

“Anytime, sir.” A nod, and he sped away.

Shan proceeded up the narrow staircase to reach the lone office. With Max out for the evening, as per his usual on weeknights, Nick was said to be managing the paperwork. But as Shan neared the door, a woman’s voice rang out over the music. It was Josie.

“My point,” she was saying, as if through clenched teeth, “is you never put me first. Ever.”

“God Almighty. I ain’t got time for this shit tonight.” Hearing Nick’s reply, Shan waited to knock, not wanting to intrude.

“Oh, yeah? Fine, Mr. Big Shot. I’ll get outta your way—for good.”

“Damn it, Josie. Just stop.”

Footsteps came closer, then halted, and her tone changed. “Let go of me.”

“Josie—”

“I said,
let go!
”

The sound of a slap caused Shan to bristle, but just for an instant. He turned the knob, grateful it wasn’t locked, and opened the door. The couple snapped their faces toward him. Though it was Nick’s cheek that had flushed from a hit, Josie’s eyes were the ones brimming with panic.

“Everything okay in here?”

Josie yanked her arm free as if burned by Nick’s grip. An imprint of his fingers reddened her skin.

“We’re fine,” Nick told him. “Just a little disagreement.”

“Josie?” Shan wanted to hear the answer from her.

She straightened in her sleek white dress, fists held stiffly at her sides. Thick black kohl lined her eyes. “Peachy,” she said. Then she exited with her gaze straight ahead. Her heels clacked down the stairwell before the sound melded into a fresh, snappy jazz tune.

Nick moved toward the mahogany desk. He smoothed his disheveled hair and straightened his tie and vest, an effort to regroup. “She gets like that when she’s had a few,” he said, taking a seat. Before him lay a spread of documents, a stack of folders. Cigar stubs filled a crystal ashtray. The office could pass as a banker’s, if not for the decanters of booze. “What do you need, Tommy?”

Recalling his purpose, Shan closed the door. It was clear Nick wouldn’t be discussing the trials of his love life. Nor, at the moment, did Shan want to hear them.

“Well?” Nick pressed.

Shan removed his hat and held it atop a wingback chair facing the desk. “I need to talk to you. It’s about the club and your involvement downstairs. And about Max, and his business deals.”

Nick shook his head and sported a humorless smile. “If this is some kind of morality speech, I appreciate the effort but I really don’t need—”

“It’s not that.” Shan heard the lack of conviction in own voice. When he pictured Mr. Carducci being slugged with a pistol, it was impossible to feel indifferent. But that discussion was for another time. “It’s the police.”

“Cops?” Nick said. “What about ’em?”

“You remember Barsetti? He’s a federal agent now.”

“So I hear.”

“Yeah, well. The other night he wanted to talk. Made it sound like they’re on to everything going on here. That it’s just a matter of time before they shut it down.”

“Let me guess. They want to know who’s runnin’ the rum and bourbon?”

Shan paused, admittedly surprised. “That’s right.”

“And … that’s all you came to tell me?”

The use of “all” made Shan hesitate. “I suppose.”

Nick snipped off a laugh, no friendlier than his previous smile. “Don’t sweat it. Barsetti’s a chump. They all are.”

Shan picked up on the sense that he himself was included in that group, for being naïve at minimum. He felt his defenses rise. “I know Max probably has plenty of cops in his pocket, maybe even some politicians. But that doesn’t mean it’ll last.”

“What’re you saying? That I should rat ’em out?”

“No. Of course not.” Ramifications aside, Shan couldn’t argue that Max Trevino had been generous in many a way. “I just think now might be a good time to walk.”

Nick dropped back in his chair, brow knotted. “To hell with that. I’m not about to hightail it because of some Prohi’s empty threats.”

“Nick, all it takes is a senator needing more votes. The mayor, even. And they’ll want to take credit for something in the news. Places like this get raided all the time. Just read any paper.”

“Yeah, and that’s why Max has it all taken care of.”

Now who was being naïve?

“I’m sure he does—for himself. What about guys like you?”

The air went still. A look of affront passed over Nick’s face before he dropped his gaze. Sitting forward, he fixed his attention on his paperwork.

Shan hadn’t meant to belittle Nick’s position, in whatever strange hierarchy had been established in their line of work; he was only being honest. Nonetheless, he tried another tack.

“Just think about the family. What it would do if you got arrested. Pop isn’t as young as he used to be—”

Nick slammed his hand on the desk. “I said not to worry about it. They ain’t your problem!”

The sentence hung between them, as cutting as a blade. Surely he didn’t intend to imply that Shan had no rightful place to be concerned.

With no words to follow, they simply stared until the phone rang.

Nick grabbed it with reluctance. “Yeah?” He waited, listening. “All right, all right. I’m comin’ down. You deaf? I told you I’ll be right there. Jesus.” He afforded Shan only a side glance. “Look, I got work to do, so …”

Shan issued a nod and replaced his hat. “I’ll see myself out.”

 

Weaving back through the main hall, Shan grew even more agitated from idiots too intoxicated from glee and booze to notice his need for passage. An oblivious woman turned with her teacup and spilled half her hooch on the lapels of Shan’s coat. She apologized through her giggles, but Shan continued on his way, wishing he’d had the foresight to stay home. If Nick was too wrapped up in his own greed and arrogance to heed the warning, that was no one’s problem but his own.

Once outside and down the entry stairs, Shan emerged onto the sidewalk and just stood for a spell. His breaths rose in foggy clouds and the cold air seeped over his skin. He was glad for the supper wine that defended against the chill.

A block down, motorcars zipped past on the main street. Remembering where he’d parked, he started toward the corner. There he spotted Josie. Her unfastened coat flapped over her flimsy dress as she waved for a taxicab before it passed her by. It seemed a repeated occurrence, the way she cursed after the driver in a voice steeped in anger and desperation. She stopped only when her heel slipped on an icy spot. She barely caught herself from falling, just as Shan arrived and grabbed her elbow from behind.

She recoiled in fear, dropping her pocketbook.

“Josie, it’s me.”

After seeing his face, she covered her mouth. Her hands visibly shook. The frosty air had tinged her nose pink, and tears laid tracks of black eye makeup down her cheeks. He had never pictured her in such a state.

“Come on, Josie,” he said gently, as if coaxing a wounded animal from a trap. “Let’s get you home.”

28

T
heir drive passed in silence, except for the few directions Shan needed to reach Josie’s apartment. The three-story brown-brick building was located only blocks from the Capellos’ place, certainly not putting him out. Not that convenience was a deciding factor in escorting her home.

After parking, Shan hurried around to help her out. Once on her feet, she watched him shut the door. She appeared to search for words.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. Just fine.” Her half smile was even less convincing than her tone.

“You want me to walk you up?”

She gave a shrug. “If you like.”

Shan nodded and accompanied her inside and up the stairs to reach the second floor. The place was fairly quiet, the hallway vacant. At her door, Josie located the key in her pocketbook, but struggled with the lock.

“Let me help,” he said, and gingerly assumed the task. The instant he opened the door, she retreated into the apartment.

He battled a sense of impropriety, stepping only as far as the entry to relinquish her key on a small table. “Well, if you’re really fine, I’ll get going.”

In the sitting room, she tugged the chain on a floor lamp, sending filtered light through its mosaic-glass shade. She halted before an oval mirror. “Mercy. Don’t I look ghastly?” She touched the hollow of her neck, as if to verify it was her own skin.

“Not at all, Josie. You just look tired.”

“Tired.” She repeated it the way Mr. Capello often tried out a new word, her gaze still on her reflection. “You got that right.” She wiped her cheeks, only spreading the smeared kohl further over her skin. She paused in weary frustration and angled toward Shan. “Give me a minute to clean up, will ya?”

“Sure,” he replied without thought.

She turned to walk away and disappeared into the bathroom.

A faint voice from the building hallway reminded Shan of the open front door. He swiftly closed it, despite his awareness that they had nothing to hide. He removed his hat and scratched the back of his hair, overdue for a trim, while taking in the setting.

A rolltop desk hulked against a wall covered in powder-blue wallpaper, like the rest of the room. Centered beneath a large window was a velvet navy couch with doilies on the curled armrests. In the corner stood a quaint Christmas tree that scented the air with pine. The branches were decorated with strung popcorn and shiny bulbs, a hand-sewn angel at the top.

Shan was trying to imagine Josie actually threading the popcorn herself when an object captured his eye. A gramophone sat on a squat cabinet against the far left wall. He made his way over to inspect the contraption and ran a finger over its smooth oak horn. It so closely resembled that from Mr. Maguire’s shop, he warmed from the familiar. He felt reunited with an old friend.

Putting down his hat, he opened the cabinet below and found two shelves of records. He flipped through them until stumbling across Marion Harris, one of the many singers he used to listen to in that old back room in Dublin.

“Put one on if you like,” Josie said from behind.

Shan turned and paused at her appearance. The fact that she’d changed into a robe wasn’t in and of itself a surprise; it was the bulkiness of the garment, the floral print faded from years of laundering, the shaggy slippers on her feet. With her unmade face and untamed curls hanging loose over her shoulders, she looked nothing like the glamour gal she portrayed at the club. No doubt her regulars imagined her lounging at home in silk and feathers, straight from boudoir scenes in the picture shows.

Of this, Shan realized, he was just as guilty.

“Records are all Doris’s, but she don’t mind,” Josie said, and continued into the kitchen, not much larger than a ship galley.

Unable to resist, Shan set the record in place and cranked the handle until fully wound. A shimmer of light reflected off the spinning black grooves. Carefully he lowered the needle. He closed his eyes, savoring the crackle that always preceded a recording; then sweet musical notes entered the air and led to Marion Harris singing “After You’ve Gone.” Lost in those bluesy tones, Shan startled at the touch to his elbow. It was a highball glass of amber booze, whiskey from the smell of it, an offering from Josie.

“One won’t kill ya,” she said at his hesitation. “Trust me, I’d be long gone.”

He accepted, not because she looked in need of a drinking companion—which indeed she did—but because the accumulation of his week made the beverage’s potency uniquely alluring. She walked away with her own glassful as Shan took a swig. A liquid burn sped down his throat and heated his chest, his gut. He was barely a teenager when he’d last experimented with the stuff, at Nick’s insistence, naturally.

A second swallow went down smoother, as did a third, dissolving knots of tension.

Perched on the couch, Josie held out a pack of Lucky Strikes. In contrast to the booze, Shan had no qualms about declining the cigarettes; sometimes in his dreams, he still saw the bloodied handkerchief in his uncle’s hand, still heard the merciless hacking.

After Josie lit one for herself, she said, “Ain’t you gonna ask?”

“What’s that?”

“What got me all hot and bothered.”

He shook his head. “None of my business what goes on between you and Nick.”

She drew from her cigarette and exhaled. “It wasn’t his fault. Not really.”

Shan downed his remaining gulp, not in the mood to help exonerate the guy.

Blue light from a sign across the street streamed through the lace curtains, casting soft speckles over Josie’s face. She finished off her whiskey. If not for the cigarette poised between her fingers, Shan might have missed the slight tremble that remained.

He leaned back against the wall beside the gramophone, rubbing his thumb on the rim of his glass. On any other day, with anyone else, he wouldn’t have pried, but he could see there was a story inside her, gnawing away, niggling to break free. “You can talk to me if you want, Josie. It’d stay in this room.”

She nodded in a way that said she already knew as much. “You’re one of the good ones, Tommy. Always have been.” She tapped her cigarette on an ashtray set on the table. Elbow propped on her waist, she continued to smoke.

“What happened?” he asked, a gentle prod.

Her gaze lowered to a distant spot on the wood floor. She lifted a shoulder. “I was fourteen. Daddy didn’t want me dating him—Albert, that is. Not just because he was eighteen, but because he was a Jew. So for months, I kept it a secret. Then I came home one night after sneaking out, and my parents had gotten back from their bridge party early. Saw me in my chiffon dress with the sleeve torn, my eye swellin’ up. And Daddy filled in the blanks pretty fast.”

Shan’s thumb went still on his glass. He worried he shouldn’t have asked for more, given the personal nature of the story, but Josie pressed on.

“I should’ve explained it right then. That Albert wasn’t fully to blame. Hell, I’m the one who suggested we go to lovers’ lane. But I’d waited too long to say no to him, and when he didn’t stop, I panicked. I pushed like mad to get free and banged my eye on his elbow. When I scratched his face, he froze. I think he’d scared himself even more than me. He tried to apologize, but I just wanted to get clean away. He was probably just tryin’ to keep me there to talk when he ripped my sleeve, but I rushed out of the car and ran all the way home.”

Josie paused then, her eyes welling with tears. Her rare show of vulnerability at last drew Shan over to the couch, where he sat at a distance, allowing her space.

“Daddy was so angry,” she said after another puff. “He was demanding who was responsible right when Albert showed up at the door. Me and Albert, we both tried to tell him it wasn’t the way it looked. But there was no reasoning with him at that point. And suddenly Daddy had a baseball bat. I still haven’t a clue where it came from—my brother always kept it in the closet. But after it hit, the blood poured out and we just stood there. ’Cause we knew. Then the police came, and Daddy did most of the talkin’, said I was in shock. Which I guess I was. He and the cop had been in the Elks Club together for years and shared the same opinion of Jews. Made it easy for him to believe that Albert chased me home and forced me to defend myself …”

As she trailed off, a single tear rolled down her face. Then her voice lowered, suggesting she’d formed a lump in her throat as thick as the one in Shan’s. “The funeral was just days later. I watched from across the cemetery as Albert’s father had to pry his mother from the casket. It’s the same day I left home. And I never looked back.”

In that moment, Shan was awed by the role Josie had played these many years, the costumes concealing her grief and guilt. It all made sense now. Her life here, her work at the club. This was to be her second chance. Yet part of her had never left that car, that house. That cemetery.

A long moment dragged out between them before Shan noticed the song had ended. The needle crackled along the inner grooves of the record. To stop the loop of static, he set down his glass and pushed on his legs to stand.

Josie looked up. “Please, don’t go yet.” Her voice came out raspy and small. Shan barely recognized it as hers.

“I won’t,” he said, and she nodded.

At the gramophone, not wanting the silence, but in no frame of mind to search for a song, Shan wound the crank and replayed the same record. He returned to his spot on the couch. Her cigarette, now more ash than tobacco, verged on crumbling. Gently he removed it from her fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray. When he sat back, she finally met his eyes. In them was a yearning for comfort, a longing to not feel alone.

Sensing she wouldn’t dare ask, he guided her to lean closer, and she readily laid her head on his shoulder. The notes of the song mixed with the rhythm of her breathing. Before long, as if deflated from releasing her confession, she sank further into Shan’s arm, molding to his side.

Though briefly hesitant, he stroked her hair, all the while aware of his decent intent. “Everything’s going to be all right, Josie. It truly will.”

Neither of them was the type to make or believe in such promises, but in that instant it didn’t seem to matter.

 

The absence of music was Shan’s first indicator that he had fallen asleep. His blinks were as heavy as the air around him. It took several seconds for him to determine his surroundings, and that the weight on his side was Josie.

Beneath his coat, her arm enwrapped his chest. Her head was nestled into the crook of his neck, her curls silken against his jaw. The smell of whiskey merged with the lemon scent of her hair. Parts of her robe had loosened, exposing the slope of her breasts beneath her brassiere. A slit up her leg drew his gaze to her bare upper thigh.

Josie must have felt him move because she lifted her head just then. Only inches separated their faces. She peered at him, a cloudy look of confusion, and touched his cheek, deciphering illusion from reality. But then her body relaxed and her fingers glided downward, landing on the inch-long scar on the side of his neck. She traced the mark from his childhood, seeming to understand the nature of its origin, though she couldn’t possibly know.

As she continued over the angle of his collarbone, the sensation pulled his eyes closed. His breathing grew strained. His muscles tightened.

He couldn’t say precisely how it came about, but suddenly their lips met. The kiss started in tender motions that morphed into something sensual. When her mouth followed the trail down his neck paved by her fingers, a shiver traveled over his skin. He felt the soft fibers of her robe brush his hands, and his grip reflexively closed on the fabric. He cinched her waist, pulling her closer, sending an airy moan from her throat. At the sound, a primal urge coursed through him.

Shan drew her upward to again place his mouth on hers. As their kisses deepened, his right hand slid under her robe, exploring the length of her side. The sound of a second, lower moan dissolved any sense of control left inside him.

In a swift, single motion, he shifted her body to lie below him and parted her robe completely. His lips hungrily moved down her neck to the soft shelf of her breasts, causing her back to arch toward him …

And a sound trilled.

Once, twice …

The telephone.

Slowly they came to a stop, their breathing heavy and jagged. The metallic bell blared again and again. Each ring brought another splash of cold water. He looked into Josie’s face. Josie Penaro. Nick’s Josie.

Sobered by what they were doing, what they were about to do, Shan pulled himself off and sat upright. Josie withdrew in much the same way. With both hands, she clutched her robe closed.

“Josie, I … I didn’t mean to …”

“I know,” she said.

The ringing of the phone ended. Awkwardness and regret crammed the room in equal measure, leaving no room for words, only silence.

“Tommy,” she said finally. “I think you ought to—”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” Then, as he should have done from the start, he left.