The Game of Love and Death(35)

The slam of a door in the distance saved her from dark thoughts. Then came footsteps on the stairs. She stopped mid-note.

“Don’t quit on our accounts.” The voice belonged to the first of three men in suits who stood in formation at the bottom of the staircase. “That was a hot little number you were singing.”

He opened his coat to reveal a badge clipped to the inside pocket of his jacket. It glinted in the half-light of the club. Tax inspectors.

“My uncle isn’t here right now.” Flora regretted her choice to work in solitude.

“Well, isn’t that a shame,” the tax inspector said. He stuck out his hand. “Edgar Potts. Alcohol Tax Unit.”

His palm was moist, and she wished she could wipe her hand on her dress without seeming rude.

“Can I help you, Mr. Potts?”

“Probably so.” His slow voice dripped with something worse than sweat. He gave a look to the two men flanking him. It was clear that whatever joke Mr. Potts was making was at her expense. They wouldn’t get a rise out of her that easily. Flora waited. If Mr. Potts wanted something, he’d have to spit it out. The silence thickened as the seconds passed, a technique she’d learned while stalling Grady.

Mr. Potts finally broke. He pulled a dingy handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. Flora wished he’d get to the spot on his upper lip. Even in the low light, it was damp enough to gleam.

“We’re here about your taxes,” he said.

Flora didn’t reply straight off. Taxes weren’t her turf, and Sherman usually shooed her away the moment these sorts of men appeared. Now she understood why. There was something snaky about Mr. Potts’s eyes. He was looking for an opportunity to strike, and Flora didn’t want to say anything that accidentally brought trouble to the club. The two men with Mr. Potts took a half step forward so that the three of them formed a wall between her and the exit. Her pulse throbbed in her temples.

“I’m sure my uncle Sherman would be happy to go over those with you tomorrow afternoon when he’s here.” She kept her voice smooth and calm. “Can I offer you a bit of something to eat?” The leftover corn bread would still taste good, even if it was meant to be taken to the poor. Mr. Potts hesitated, and Flora hoped she didn’t look as jittery as she felt.

“We’ll take you up on that,” Mr. Potts said, finally. “And we’ll have a bit of something to drink. And then” — he paused and coughed into his wet hand — “we’ll take a look at your books. Today. Right now, even. We know it’s your club as much as it’s his. Your name’s on the tax rolls, after all.”


Flora stared hard at him, certain he’d purposely chosen to come on a day when Sherman wasn’t there, thinking she’d be an easy mark. He was in for a surprise. Their books were as clean as the laundry, and she had more life experience under her sash than most people her age. Other clubs might try to cut corners on the liquor taxes, but not the Domino.

“Fine, then. Won’t you please follow me … gentlemen?” They weren’t the only ones who could make a joke.

She headed through the swinging kitchen door and felt the warm weight of someone’s hand on her backside. Gritting her teeth hard enough to crack stone, she stepped out of Mr. Potts’s grip and walked to the long wooden counter in the middle of the room without saying a word.

She chose the largest knife Charlie had to cut the corn bread. It didn’t make the job easier, especially as her hands were shaking. But it sent a message, she hoped, as she used its tip to set three squares of yellow onto three white plates. She poured three glasses of milk, knowing it wasn’t the type of beverage Mr. Potts had in mind. He couldn’t exactly complain, though. He wasn’t supposed to drink on the job. Her breathing deepened as she felt herself take control of the room, much as she did when she was onstage, creating a barrier of notes between her and her audience.

“Won’t you please sit?” She pointed the knife toward a round table in the corner where she and Sherman and the rest of the staff ate during their breaks. Mr. Potts and his flunkies let her serve them corn bread and milk, which he eyed as if it was from a one-eyed goat. Flora let herself smile fully. Maybe she’d get lucky and he’d choke. “I’ll be back with the books in a moment.”

She felt their eyes follow her into the safe in the storeroom, where Sherman kept the records. Someone wolf whistled — not Mr. Potts, who was in the middle of a spongy cough. Oh, to cut the three of them into squares and serve them up on clean white plates. That would be something. She found the ledger and stood a couple of paces from the table, holding the book, bound in marbled cardboard, to her chest.

Mr. Potts snapped. “Let’s see it here.”

She set it in front of him and moved his milk and corn bread away.

He flipped it open and found the most recent entries. “How do I know you don’t keep a second set of books?”

“A second set? I don’t know what you might mean. But I believe my uncle would tell you it’s work enough to keep the one.”

Mr. Potts made a show of studying the numbers. He nodded and grunted as he reached across the table and stuffed his mouth with corn bread, dropping greasy crumbs on the pages that Sherman had labored over.

“Got anything else for us?” he asked. “Any other source of income to report? Your uncle” — the way he said the word indicated he didn’t believe the relationship was true — “hasn’t gone into an older line of business, has he?”