“Abraham,” she gasped when she reached him. “Is Bea okay?”
The look that met her didn’t make her worry any less. “Hard to know,” he said, fidgeting with the brim of his hat as though he didn’t know what to do with his hands. She had no idea, Vivian realized, whether Abraham drank or danced or even ventured out to where places like the Nightingale opened their doors. He often drove the night shift in his cab, but that was all she knew. “I stopped by after dinner to see her, and she asked me to drive her here. Said she needed to get out for a bit.” He nodded toward a corner table. “She asked me to get drinks. But I’m worried about her. She should be home with her family.”
“Sometimes a girl needs a break from her family,” Vivian pointed out.
“Yeah, well.” Abraham fidgeted with the brim of his hat again, glancing around nervously before picking up the two cocktails that the bartender slid his way. “They’re worried about her. And so am I. Can you talk some sense into her?”
Vivian sighed. “No promises, but I can try.”
But she didn’t get a chance. When they reached the table, she found her friend chatting with another man. Vivian could tell by the tense set of her shoulders and the way one hand was tapping against the table that Bea was some kind of nervous or excited.
“Please, mister,” she was saying in an urgent whisper. “If you know something, please, you gotta tell me.”
“Everything okay?” Abraham asked, eyeing the other man warily.
Both of them jumped a little when they realized they had company. The man stood, looking ready to move off, but Bea grabbed his sleeve. “Mr. Guzman here knew my uncle,” she said, her voice light and casual, her expression anything but. “He heard about Pearlie dying and came over to give his condolences.”
“Lived near him,” Mr. Guzman said, looking uncomfortable. He was about the same age as Pearlie had been. There were lines around his eyes but none on his forehead, and his hair had only a touch of silver at the temples. “Started coming here because Pearlie mentioned it was a good time. Sorry again about your uncle, Songbird. But I’m due on the dance floor, so excuse me but—”
“But here’s the funny thing,” Bea continued, her eyes boring into Vivian’s. “Seems Mr. Guzman got a pretty odd letter a few weeks ago.”
“I got nothing to say about that,” Mr. Guzman said through clenched teeth. His chin tucked just the slightest bit toward his chest, and he shifted his weight, as though he was fighting the urge to step back.
“All right, he said no, so that’s that,” Abraham broke in, setting the drinks down so abruptly that they spilled a little. He shook his head, looking anxious. “Come on, Bea, we should get going. You need to—”
“You sure we can’t persuade you to give us a minute of your time?”
The group startled again when Honor spoke. None of them had noticed her approach the table. But where she stood, she easily blocked Mr. Guzman’s path back to the dance floor.
He stared at her, suddenly looking nervous. “Ms. Huxley. You planning to shake me down for something?”
“Just information,” Honor said smoothly, a dollar appearing between her fingers. She held it out to him. “And it’s not a shakedown, just a request. Sit down and have chat with me.”
“Oh?” He eyed the money, but instead of taking it he crossed his arms. He eyed them all warily. “I don’t much like talking to strangers these days.”
Vivian tried to look as unthreatening as possible. She was used to watching dancers move; she could tell he was balanced on his toes, ready to flee at a single wrong word. Something had him on edge for sure. “And we won’t take up much of your time, mister, I promise,” she said earnestly, giving him a small, hopeful smile. “But it’s real important. Please? It’ll just take a minute.”
Guzman looked her up and down, and his posture relaxed slightly. “All right, baby, since you asked so sweet. But make it quick.”
They all sat down again, crowded around the small round table, and he took a long drink, grimacing as he set down the glass and looked them over. “What do you want to know?”
“Those letters,” Bea said, leaning forward. “Can you tell me anything about them?”
Guzman let out a slow breath. “You didn’t hear nothing from me, little girl. You understand? But if your uncle got a letter, I’m guessing he ignored it, poor bastard. You can’t ignore one of those letters.”
Vivian’s heart sped up. “You got a letter?” she asked. “What did it say?”
“That someone knew I had a real pretty silver hairbrush, and if I didn’t want something bad to happen, I should leave it in a certain spot on a certain night and not ask any questions.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “It was the only valuable thing I had. My mother brought it with her when she first crossed the border. And now I got nothing of hers left.”
“And you did what the letter said?” Honor asked, her brows rising in surprise.
“Goddamn right I did. After what happened to the folks the floor below me? I don’t have a death wish. It might have been a family treasure, but that’s no good to me if I’m dead.”
“What do you mean?” Vivian demanded. “What happened to your neighbors?”
“And where does the poison come in?” Honor added.
Guzman hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind all in a rush. Speaking so quietly that they had to lean forward to hear him, he murmured, “They got a letter before I did, and they ignored it. The day after they were supposed to leave their valuables, someone sent a package addressed to their kids. There was a box of rat poison in it.”
