“Mama would bawl me out if she knew the way I talked to white folks here, you know.”
“She hears how you talk to me all the time,” Vivian said, attempting a joke, though it fell flat, even to her own ears. Bea shot her a withering look. “Sorry. I know, I’m sorry.”
Bea rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you’re poor Irish trash, girl. You don’t count.”
“PoororphanIrish trash, even better.” Vivian glanced at the doorway where Roy had disappeared. “Any time left on your break? We could go outside for some air if you don’t want to go back in there yet.”
“I’ve got a few minutes still.” Bea hesitated, then nodded firmly. “I’d like that.”
“And while we’re breathing that healthy New York air”—Vivian smiled as Bea snorted—“I can tell you about the fancy new lipstick I just got treated to.”
“Never tell me you’re taking gifts from gentlemen!” Bea said, feigning horror. “Why, Vivian, don’t you know what sort of things men expect when they give a girl presents?”
“Well, lucky me then, this was from another girl…”
The light spilling from the door threw the brick walls of the alley into sharp relief as they tumbled into the night. Even though the air was heavy with the dirt and smoke of the city, it was still fresh compared to the sweaty, boozy heat of the Nightingale.
Vivian took a deep breath. Somewhere nearby a man and a woman argued, and the screech of a cat was nearly drowned out by a church bell—one in the morning already, she realized with surprise, wondering if she would be late enough to avoid a disapproving lecture when she finally slunk home for a few hours of sleep. The alley was a mass of shadows and dim patches of light from the windows of other buildings, but Bea snagged a loose brick with her foot. When she slid it into place before the door closed, a bright streak of electric light from the club stuttered its way over the piles of empty crates and trash bins.
“Anyone out here getting frisky?” she called as she finished propping the door open. There was a muffled gasp from one end of the alley and the sound of frantic feet. “Don’t mind us if you are, just getting a breath of air.”
“Lord, Bea, leave them in peace,” Vivian laughed. “I don’t suppose you snagged a bottle of anything before you came out? I’m parched.”
“No, Danny wasn’t there when I left—had to go deal with some business or other for Honor. And the new bartender is damned stingy about letting the staff wander off with hooch,” Bea said, twitching up her skirt to pull a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of her garter. “Smoke?”
“In a minute. Can you swing the door open wider?” Vivian squinted across the alley, in the opposite direction of whoever was necking, her eye caught by something peeking out from behind a precarious pile of trash. “I think there’s a fella passed out in the corner there.”
“When will men learn to hold their liquor?” Bea blew out a delicate stream of smoke. “Hey, mister, you all right?”
There was no answer. It was definitely a pair of men’s shoes sticking out, Vivian saw as Bea nudged the brick to prop the door open wider.One pant leg was hiked up high enough to show a red garter at the top of his socks, and the other was plastered wetly to a leg, as if the fellow had gotten so drunk he pissed himself before passing out. Vivian grimaced in secondhand embarrassment.
“Mister?” Vivian ignored Bea’s quiet hiss to mind her own business as she walked over. “You need some help?”
For a moment, as she peered around the stack of rubble, she saw exactly what she expected. The well-dressed man was slumped awkwardly against the wall, as if he had slid slowly down it before finally reaching the stability of the ground, his pomaded hair undisturbed even as his head tilted toward his chest. He was sitting in a puddle of something dark, and Vivian took a quick step back, not wanting to get her only dancing shoes stained with city filth. It took a long moment for her mind to catch up to what her eyes were seeing.
The man wasn’t moving at all, not even to breathe, and the air around him was heavy with the reek of a butcher shop. The puddle beneath him glinted red-brown, and where his jacket fell open, she could see a dark stain had spread across his otherwise pristine shirt.
Vivian stumbled back. “Oh God, Bea,” she gasped, her voice hoarse. “I… I think he’s dead.”
THREE
What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean he’s got a goddamn hole in his chest and—” Vivian broke off, swallowing rapidly, over and over, as her mouth filled with a sour taste.
She wanted to look away, but her gaze was fixed on the dead man’s hands. They hung limply open, pale fingers trailing in the puddle of blood beneath him. A single lit cigarette still smoldered in his lap where it had fallen. One end was bitten off; the other burned a weak hole in his trousers. Those were custom-made, she noticed, her mind fixing on any details that could distract her. She knew quality stitching when she saw it. Not off the rack. A man who could afford stitching like that had money to burn.
“Vivian? Viv?”
Vivian glanced over just in time to see the raised hand that Bea quickly tucked behind her back. “Were you about to slap me?”
“If I had to.” Bea glanced at the dead man, then shuddered. She took a long drag from her cigarette before turning away. “Come on.”
“What?”
“We have to get back inside.”
“Bea, he’s dead!”
