Out of the Easy(14)

“See you tonight!” Charlotte hurried out of the store, smiling and waving from the wet street.

“Are you crazy? An Uptown party?” I said.

“Why not? I think you’re the one that’s crazy, Jooosephine,” mocked Patrick. “Since when?”

“Well, Josie is nearly short for Josephine and Josephine is so much more . . . I don’t know.”

Josie sounded like a cheap nickname. Why couldn’t Mother have named me Josephine?

“Seems like you’ve made a new friend,” said Patrick. “I like her. She’s smart.”

Charlotte was smart. She even knew how to fly a plane. She was also witty and fun. And she seemed to truly like me. Actually, she seemed impressed with me. A twinge of happiness bounced around in my chest. Charlotte lived across the country. She didn’t know about Mother, Willie’s, who I was, or what I came from.

“She sure was giving you the hard sell on Smith.”

“Yes. It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Who knows, maybe I would like to go to Smith,” I told Patrick.

“Yeah, well, I’d like to go to the Juilliard School, but I don’t see that happening either. But in the meantime, what a great idea you had to part your hair on the side.”

I wadded up some paper and threw it at him.





NINE


Patrick left to pay his respects to the widow Vitrone and make a deal on Proust in the process. I pushed the book cart among the aisles, shelving the new titles we had taken in last week. Patrick did the buying and pricing. I did the organizing. It had been our system for years. I slid the new romance by Candace Kinkaid into place. Rogue Desire. How did she come up with such bad titles? Creating bad titles could be a fun game for Patrick and me . . . or maybe even me and Charlotte.

Why couldn’t I go to Smith? I had made nearly all A’s in high school and took the College Board Tests because they seemed fun. True, my extracurricular was limited to cleaning a brothel and spending time with Cokie, not exactly something you’d put on a college application. But I had a lot of experience from working in the bookshop and, on average, read at least 150 books per year. I was fairly well versed in all subjects.

What would the girls from high school—the ones with two parents and a trust fund—say when I ran into them at Holmes department store? “Oh I’m sorry, I’m in such a rush,” I’d tell them. “You see, I’m off to Smith in the fall and I’m just here picking up my monogrammed sweaters. Why, yes, Smith is out East. I just didn’t find the curricula of the Southern schools compelling whatsoever.”

I couldn’t wait to receive the information from Charlotte. I planned to start a list with all my questions and would go back to the library to read up on Smith.

The bell jingled as I was reaching up to the top shelf. “I’ll be right with you,” I called out. I dusted off my palms, straightened the dip in the front of my hair, and stepped out to help the customer.

“My apologies, I was—”

I jerked to a halt. Cincinnati leaned up against the shelf in front of me, cigarette dangling from his mouth. The black suit jacket hung large on his slender shoulders. His handsome had gone rotten, like bad fruit. His gray eyes were still thin slits and now matched a silvery scar across the bridge of his nose. He stood staring for a moment, then stepped closer.

“Well, lookie this. I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve grown up something, now, haven’t you?” He eyed my blouse, rolling the cigarette between his lips. “You spreadin’ your legs for Willie?”

“No,” I said quickly.

“That’s a shame.” He smashed his cigarette against the side of the bookshelf and moved closer. “I might actually take a turn with you myself,” he said, leaning in toward my face, “seein’ as we have a score to settle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I could feel my pistol, strapped against my right leg under my skirt. I just needed the opportunity to reach for it. But lifting my skirt did not seem wise, considering the circumstances.

“Don’t know what I’m talking about?” sneered Cincinnati. He held up his left hand, displaying a shiny red patch. “Some little witch burned me, burned me bad. And some old hag shot me in the leg. You know what it feels like to be burned, little girl?” He took a step toward me. “You wanna feel it? I bet you do. I bet you’re like your momma.”

“I’m nothing like my mother,” I told him, edging away from the stacks into the center of the store in order to be visible from the front window.

“Where you sliding to? You scared of me, Josie Moraine? You scared I’m gonna cut you up in little pieces and dump you in Marcello’s swamps?” He laughed, revealing brown tobacco stains on his bottom teeth. He grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me to him. “You’d be such sweet eatin’ for those gators.”

The door to the shop flew open. “Get your hands off her!” Cokie ordered. He was carrying a tire iron.

Cincinnati barely looked at Cokie. “Mind your own business, old man.”

“I’ll mind some business with this iron through your head.” Cokie raised the tire iron. “I said get your hands off her.”

Cincinnati let go of my wrist. “Oh, I see how it is. She’s your property. You keep her locked in this bookshop and stop by for a poke whenever you feel like it.”