The Game of Love and Death(12)

“Come on, Henry.” Ethan glanced back over his shoulder, his car key in hand. “You can’t afford to get yourself into trouble. Let’s get out of here before that happens. At best, you’re going to make a fool out of yourself. At worst … at worst, this might be the stupidest idea you’ve ever had. We’re not writing an article about her. Not now, not ever. Nothing justifies your curiosity here. Let’s go.”

Henry had just raised his hand to knock one final time when the door opened and the emcee, a tall man with front teeth gapped wide enough to hold a nickel, burst out.

“Club’s closed, gentlemen,” he said. Stripped of his tuxedo jacket, he crossed his muscular arms over his chest, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Ethan took a half step back, leaving Henry by himself. Henry stammered, and the man laughed and shook his head, as if he’d seen the same scene unfold a thousand times before. “Her name is Flora, but it’s Miss Saudade to you. She’s my niece. She doesn’t date the customers, especially not turkey-necked white boys who only have one thing on their minds.”

“I know. That’s not what —” The words clogged his throat. “I — we were at the airstrip yesterday. For an article. I wanted to say hello. I wondered if I might —”

The man exhaled, uncrossed his arms, and grabbed the doorknob. “Much as I am a fan of publicity, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. There hasn’t been a white newspaper that’s written about the likes of us unless some sort of arrest was involved. You wouldn’t have any proof you are who you say you are, would you?”

Henry looked at Ethan, who had such proof in his pocket. Ethan, stubborn as ever, shook his head.

“Just as I thought,” the emcee said. “How about you make yourself scarce before I pound you into a pudding.”

“But —”

The man slammed the door in Henry’s face.

“Cripes! There you go,” Ethan said. “I knew I should have talked you out of this ridiculous business. My parents would be apoplectic at the thought of you coming here. Nothing good can come of this, Henry. You’ll thank me later.”

He turned on his heel. “Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Henry felt a crack in the ground open between him and his best friend. He wouldn’t say another word about Flora to Ethan.

I’ll come every night, he thought. Every night, just to listen. He had to. He’d focused on being useful and dutiful and respectable for so long. He couldn’t do it. Not when it came to this girl, this music, even if it wasn’t something Ethan could understand.





FINISHED for the night, Flora sat in her small dressing room, holding a tall glass of lemonade against her forehead. The stage lights were always so hot she felt like something out of an oven after a performance, and nothing was better than something cold, tart, and sweet to drink. As she lowered the glass to sip, she tried not to think about that one moment in her performance … the moment she lost control.

Focus on what went well, she told herself. Your club was full. No fights broke out. The tax inspectors didn’t drop by with their notebooks to count the bottles of liquor.

Probably no one even noticed the ruined note — well, no one but Grady, who’d no doubt bring it up with her later, thinking he was doing her a favor. He was that way with her. Because he was older, he considered himself her teacher, her protector, and her superior. He could be a real jackass.

She blamed the boy, though. The one from the airstrip. The one doing the article on the plane. Henry or Ethan. She wasn’t sure which was which. Either way, he wasn’t the sort she usually saw in the Domino, which was perhaps why he stood out in his tuxedo, his eyes glittering in his white face. It needled her that she couldn’t ignore him during the show. Usually, she looked over people’s heads. The audience couldn’t tell the difference.

This time, though, it was as if some force had lashed her gaze to his. The moment of connection felt the way it did the instant the wheels of her airplane touched ground. There was a solidity, an inevitability to it, as though her body had been built for it, even if she wanted only to be back in the sky. It had never happened before. Never. But it was over and done. He wasn’t the Domino type, and surely he’d gotten what he needed for whatever article he’d planned.

Flora shivered and set down the lemonade. She had no business looking twice at a white boy, or he at her, especially if he was the sort who felt entitled to take what he wanted. She’d seen it happen before, sometimes with the waitresses, sometimes with the cigarette girls. Deep in her center, a sense of danger planted itself. She trusted — she hoped — the feeling would disappear.

To let in a bit of air while she waited for Grady to come fetch her (as if she were a child), she stood on a low bookshelf and cracked open the high window, the only one in the whole club that hadn’t been bricked shut. Sherman was scolding someone in the alley. Not the authorities. With them, he was nothing but honey, smiles, and free cocktails. Whoever it was, he was handling it. Flora smiled and jumped off the shelf. She took one last sip of her lemonade, letting the ice rattle in the glass. Then she felt ready to call it a night, and maybe feed the cat, poor thing, and then eat some of that chocolate cake Nana had made.

Right on cue, Grady knocked and stuck his head inside the door.