Iron Cast(28)

Corinne sat in the chair behind the desk and took out the pocket watch. She wanted to clean it, but she didn’t have the right supplies. Instead she set it on the desk and traced the etched swirls on the back with her fingernail. She recited a poem by Christina Rossetti, even though there was no one around to see an illusion. She liked the way the words felt on her tongue without artifice. Beautiful and poignant and rhythmic, like the ticking of the watch beneath her fingertips.

Even though Ada knew that it was smarter to stick around the Cast Iron, she didn’t want to while away the day doing nothing. Besides, she wasn’t about to eat soggy leftovers for lunch when her mother lived only five blocks away.

She pulled on her coat, gloves, and a warm cloche hat. The common room was empty—she, Corinne, and Saint were the only ones living down here right now. Other members of Johnny’s trusted circle drifted in and out on the current of their erratic lives. There had been one memorable summer when every inch of floor space was filled with blankets, pillows, and dirty socks.

Today everything was peaceful. The seating area was cluttered as usual, with books and sheet music and half-cleaned instruments. As she walked past Saint’s open door, she caught a glimpse of his red hair, but she didn’t slow down. The sharp scent of paint and brush cleaner followed her all the way to the stairs.

She knew that someday, somehow, she would have to find a way to at least acknowledge his presence, but not yet. She was still having nightmares about Haversham.

At the top of the stairs, Gordon was in conversation with someone, which was strange enough by itself. What was stranger was that the visitor was Charlie.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him, leaning in for a peck on the lips. Charlie never showed up at the Cast Iron during the day. It wasn’t that he wasn’t welcome exactly, just that the rivalry between the Red Cat and the Cast Iron hovered between friendly competition and something much more caustic. Several years ago Luke Carson had tried unsuccessfully to edge Johnny out of business. It had escalated from mudslinging to violence in less than a month, ending only when Johnny had shown up at the Red Cat during a performance, sat down right at Carson’s table, and calmly promised to burn the club to the ground if Carson didn’t back off. That was how the story went, anyway. It was one of Corinne’s favorites. Supposedly the two club owners had buried the hatchet since then, but Ada was still careful not to spend a lot of time with Charlie when Johnny was around. Just in case.

“Good morning to you too,” he said, his mouth working into a smile. He looked dapper in a brown coat and slacks, holding his hat in his hands.

“Morning,” Ada said, heading for the back door. “Did we have plans?”

“Not as such.” He skipped ahead of her to open the door. “Hold on—you take care, Gordon, you hear?”

He waved farewell before shutting the door. Gordon returned the wave, which was another first.

“Why does Gordon like you?” Ada asked.

“We’ve been together for nine months now,” Charlie said. “Haven’t you figured out that everybody likes me?”

Being best friends with Corinne meant being practiced at looking unimpressed. Ada put on that expression now and crossed her arms. Charlie chuckled and offered her his arm. She wanted to be annoyed at him, but his expression was so earnest and genuine that she tucked her hand under his elbow and walked with him to the street. The alleyway wasn’t the most pleasant place to have a conversation, what with the stench of garbage lingering.

“You hear about the raid the other night?” she asked.

“Why do you think I came?” He slipped his right hand over her fingers on his arm.

“We’re all fine,” she said.

She wanted to tell him about the close call with the cops, but the words curdled in her throat when she remembered the dead look in their eyes as she’d played them into oblivion. Charlie didn’t have any family to support, and he made enough money at the Red Cat that he never had to run cons with Carson’s crew. Charlie was a songsmith who played hope and joy better than any other feeling. Ada, on the other hand, could make a grown man forget his own mother’s face with only a few bars. She could play loss so keen that regs would sometimes fall to their knees and weep. What did that say about her?

“I wish I’d been there,” Charlie said.

“I’m glad you weren’t,” she told him. She coughed around the lump in her throat and realized that she had inadvertently brought them back to the argument they had started and never finished before the show. She worried her lip between her teeth and waited for him to speak.

The street was quiet today, with a crisp cold breeze and a sky the color of a troubled sea. Ada could smell the bakery around the corner, and somewhere distant a child was laughing.

“If you’ll tell me why you’re mad at me, I’ll apologize,” Charlie said. “I just don’t know what I did.”

It took Ada a few seconds to figure out that he wasn’t joking.

“You didn’t do anything,” she said. “I’m not mad.”

Charlie pulled her gently to a stop and turned to face her, holding her hand between them. He studied her face intently, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe her.

“I never know exactly what you’re thinking, Ada,” he said at last. “I love that about you, but I also can’t help but feel that there’s something you aren’t telling me. Something you don’t want me to know.”