Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(60)

“Maybe.”

Bo added a dollar bill to the tickets. “Fellow out front said you were the guy to ask if we wanted to see Mad Hammett.”

He looked at Astrid and took Bo’s money. “Yeah, all right. Booth four.”

“No need. We just want to talk to Hammett,” Bo said.

“You want to talk, you go into the booth. If Hammett likes the look of ya, he’ll stop by.”

“But—”

“Not my rules, buddy. But I can tell you this much. If you’re gun-shy about this in here,” he said, nodding his head toward the carousel, “you ain’t gonna last five minutes upstairs.”

Was this some sort of test to weed out the weak of stomach? Two more men were approaching the carousel, and Henry already had his eye on them, ready to hand Bo’s tickets and money back. He plainly didn’t care whether they went in or not.

“Let’s go inside,” Astrid told Bo in a loud voice, putting on a good show of enthusiasm for Henry and hoping she sounded braver than she felt. “It’ll be fun.”

Bo lifted a brow and hesitated briefly. “You heard the lady. Guess that means we’ll be taking booth four.”

Henry shrugged and pocketed the cash. “To the right. No touching the dancer.”

No touching? Was this a common problem? Astrid’s palms suddenly felt overwarm.

“What about Mad Hammett?” Bo asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell him. Whether he wants to talk to you is his business.” Henry opened the velvet stanchion and allowed them to go through. They passed under the carnival lights and into a cramped circular passageway that bounded around the edge of the structure like thread on a spool. Tattered curtains were pulled shut over arched doorways on the inner wall, and each one had a number scrawled above it in peeling paint. Astrid spied light through the edges of the curtains and heard music and laughter, but they ran into no one until they found the doorway marked 4.

Bo lowered his head and spoke into her ear. “We don’t have to do this.”

“And quit now? Absolutely not. How bad could it be?”

“Anywhere from uncomfortable to downright horrifying,” he said, looking anxious about the prospect of either as he pushed back the half-open curtain.

Her stomach twisted anxiously.

Inside was a cramped space with two squat stools and a low bar counter. The counter looked out over a narrow stage whose view was blocked by another curtain. It smelled like bleach, which was good and bad. Good, because someone had recently cleaned the floor and counter. Bad, because it needed to be cleaned. Astrid certainly wasn’t eager to sit on the stool.

“Forget the dancer. Don’t touch anything,” Bo warned.

That didn’t make her feel any better.

Holding her hand, he perched on a stool and urged her to sit sideways across his lap. “There,” he said, tucking her closer, arms encircling her waist and back as she slung her own arm around his shoulder. “How’s that?”

“Better,” she said as her misgivings subsided considerably. It felt decadent to be held by him, despite their seedy surroundings. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek . . . and when he moved, that breath tickled the flyaway curls that had escaped the silver hair clip over her ear. This sent a shower of chills down her neck. “See, this isn’t so bad,” she said, speaking as much to herself as to him. “Rather exciting, I’d even say, in a dangerous sort of way.”

“Everything involving you is.”

She relaxed a little more and glanced at the closed curtain. “That man said Mad Hammett would stop by if he likes the looks of us,” she whispered. “But how does he get a look at us? Is he behind the curtain?”

“Was wondering that myself. Maybe—”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the movement in front of them. The curtain was opening. Music flooded the small room as a single bright bulb came to life over the tiny stage. Not more than three feet away from them, a pale woman with long brown hair smiled down at them. Her scuffed black T-strap heels were level with the counter, and her dark stockings bore a long run down one knee. In lieu of clothes, she wore five playing cards—one over each breast and three fanned out below her belly button.

The dancer didn’t seem put off by Astrid’s presence, and after a brief moment of discomfort, Astrid decided she wasn’t all that put off by the dancer, either. She’d seen worse things in that hidden collection of pornographic postcards her brother Winter kept in his study—one he didn’t think anyone knew about, but, in fact, everyone did. Probably even Greta. The dancer in front of her, who was now halfheartedly swaying to the music, was nude, yes, but she wasn’t particularly becoming. Never one to be falsely modest, Astrid felt her own body to be quite superior, which made her feel a little better about Bo looking.

That is, until the woman removed the card over her right breast to reveal one nipple with a large brown areola. The dancer flung the card over her shoulder and winked at Astrid.

Astrid wanted to laugh. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was even a little fun. The way Bo was muttering under his breath made it clear that he was uncomfortable and regretting having agreed to all this, and Astrid rather enjoyed that.

“What do you think?” she whispered near his ear, nudging the brim of his hat up with her nose.