Last Call at the Nightingale Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  St. Martin’s Press ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Neena, who walked all over NYC with me to research these characters and their world.

  And for Brian, even though he thought Jazz & Murder was a good title.

  ONE

  New York City, 1924

  The long, drawn-out wail of a trumpet could hide almost anything.

  The breathless conversation in the middle of a dance, when one partner’s lips were so close to the other’s ear, just long enough for a whispered invitation, Meet me in the alley, greeted with either a slap or a smile that meant Yes.

  The girl who slipped up to the bar, who didn’t have any money, not with the wages they paid at the factory, but who looked like she needed that little bit of living the Nightingale could provide, so the bartender poured a drink anyway and winked as he slid it over.

  The stammered invitation, Would you like to dance?, of a new boy, still unfailingly polite, before he learned to grin sideways and place a hand on his heart, pleading, Dust off your shoes, doll, no one can catch a quickstep like you!

  When the trumpet wailed, all that mattered was whether you could keep time for the foxtrot, move fast enough for the quickstep, feel the reckless joy of the Charleston.

  It hid the way Vivian swallowed her champagne too quickly, bubbles burning her throat and making her feel brave. It hid the ugly shoes that were all she could afford, the secondhand spangles sewn onto the hem of her dress, the way she didn’t seem to belong anywhere else but here, alive and breathless and something like happy, even if it was only for a few hours.

  The long, drawn-out wail of a trumpet could hide almost anything. Even the sound of murder.

  TWO

  “You don’t have to sit with me the whole time.”

  The comment broke into Vivian’s thoughts, which had been swaying out on the floor in time to the slow waltz the band was crooning. She jumped and glanced at her friend, feeling guilty. “You only get twenty minutes of break, Bea. Of course I’m sitting with you.”

  Bea took a long drink of water—the waitresses were the only ones who ever asked for water at the Nightingale—and settled back in her chair, one eyebrow lifting toward where her curly hair had been wrestled into a careful wave across her forehead. She had worked at the Nightingale so long that she always looked perfectly at home there, whether she was serving, resting, drinking, or dancing. Vivian envied her that.

  “That’s sweet of you, but it’s too loud to talk anyway. So why don’t I rest these poor little puppies”—Bea stretched out one foot, rotating the ankle slowly—“while you catch Mr. Lawrence’s eye over there and see if he’ll take the hint.”

  Vivian didn’t have time to object. Mr. Lawrence had already seen Bea looking and, giving the gray wings of his hair a delicate touch, strolled over. “Evening, Miss Vivian,” he said, polite as always. Ms. Huxley, the Nightingale’s owner—no miss for her, as she made clear to anyone who got it wrong—insisted on manners in her club. “Enjoying your break, Beatrice?”

  “Soaking it up, sir,” Bea agreed with an earnest smile. “But poor Viv here can’t keep her feet still, even with this sad stuff playing. You’ll take her for a twirl, won’t you, Mr. Lawrence?”

  If they had been out on the street, Vivian knew that Bea would have never spoken to the distinguished white man at all, and he would never have glanced at the Black waitress or her Irish friend, no matter how pretty they were or polite he was. But the rules could be different behind back-alley doors with no addresses—the ones that opened only when you knocked the right number of times, where the steps swept down to the dance floor and the gin made its way from Chicago. Mr. Lawrence smiled and held out his hand. “Miss Vivian. I haven’t had the pleasure this evening.”

  She could have declined. But Bea was nodding encouragement, and the band was drawing out the melody with a perfect flair. So Vivian swallowed the rest of her champagne and let him lead her into the line of couples slowly revolving around the dance floor. He glanced down at her hands as they settled into the rhythm.

  “Factory work?” he asked. A waltz left plenty of breath for talking if you wanted to.

  “Sewing,” Vivian said, wiggling fingertips that were reddened from years of needle pricks.

  “Must be a nice escape for you, then, coming here,” he said.

  “As long as someone else is buying my drinks,” she agreed, and they both laughed.

  “Well, I’m always good for a round, especially for a girl who dances as prettily as you.” There was something delightfully old-fashioned about his politeness, especially in the middle of an underground dance hall.

  “And what are you escaping from?” she asked. “I doubt you spend your days working in a factory.”

  “No, I am very fortunate,” he said gravely, which made Vivian like him even more. “But we all have responsibilities we want to forget about from time to time.” He smiled, and the serious mood lightened as he added, “Besides, Ms. Huxley stocks her bar like a lush’s dream.” It was true. The Nightingale was a smaller club, but the bar held its own with the best.

  They had danced before only a couple of times, but their bodies moved together easily with the sway of the waltz. The freedom to stand so close to someone who was nearly a stranger, but whose secrets she was trusted to keep and who was trusted to keep hers, made Vivian feel even giddier than the champagne. She would never tire of it.

  The band leader knew just how to get his musicians to draw out the last note, sweet and melancholy, overlapping the polite applause before the trumpet swung into the first notes of “Charleston Charlie.” There was a mad rush to grab a partner and get back on the dance floor.

  A stylish girl, her curly brunette bob glittering with spangles, made a beeline for Mr. Lawrence, calling, “Laurie promised me this one, you’ll just have to wait!” to the grumpy-looking young man who watched her with his arms crossed. Vivian smiled, waving away Mr. Lawrence’s apologetic look as she ducked out of the brunette’s way. It was almost painful to miss a Charleston—if she had known it was coming up, she would never have let Bea persuade her onto the floor for a waltz—but it was also her only chance to spend time with her friend that evening.

  Bea had moved to the bar, where the smirking bartender was just sliding a drink toward her. There were always two bartenders serving, and in the months that Vivian had been coming to the Nightingale, the second one had changed half a dozen times, a rotating cast of dark blond hair and forgettable faces.

  But Danny Chin was always there, working every patron with an experienced patter and a charming smile. He was the club’s unofficial second-in-command, Honor Huxley’s loyal right hand who could spot a plainclothes cop from the top of the stairs and danced like a dream on the rare occasions when he slipped out from behind the bar. All the girls who made their way to the Nightingale were half in love with him, at least when he was smiling right at them.

  Even though Vivian was
too smart to think it meant anything, she still blushed when he turned that grin on her as she slid in next to her friend. “One for you too, kitten?”

  Vivian sighed. “Wish I could, Danny, but I’m short of change tonight.”

  “I’m sure you can spot her one on the house, can’t you?” Bea said. “Nightingale needs girls on the dance floor, and Lord knows they don’t come prettier than Viv. Or better dancers.”

  Danny glanced at something over their heads, and his grin grew wider. “Looks like you’re drinking on Mr. Lawrence’s tab tonight. Must have charmed him during that waltz.”

  “Wish I could’ve charmed him during the Charleston, instead,” Vivian said with a grimace. “What’s Bea drinking?”

  “French Seventy-Five,” said Danny proudly. “One of my specialties, if I can brag a little.”

  “You always do,” Bea said, rolling her eyes, though she sighed with appreciation as she sipped her drink. “Golly, this song sounds dull without a singer. Why hasn’t Honor hired one yet?” There was a look of longing in her eyes as she glanced toward the bandstand, singing quietly under her breath.

  “I will never understand the point of mixing champagne with anything else.” Vivian eyed Bea’s drink and shook her head. “It’s perfect on its own. Your best, then, if Mr. Lawrence is paying. I have a feeling he can afford it.”

  “He can,” Danny laughed, pouring her a coupe of dancing bubbles. “Sorry you missed your favorite dance.”

  “I’d be happy to partner you for the Charleston, Vivian.”

  The low voice, honey-smooth and smoky, made Vivian jump, champagne spilling over her fingers.

  “Hux, don’t startle her into wasting the good stuff,” Danny complained as Bea snorted with amusement and handed over a napkin.

  Vivian felt her cheeks burning as she met the eyes of the woman who was now leaning one elbow on the bar and watching her.

  No one who met Honor Huxley was surprised to find out that she ran a place like the Nightingale. Someone like Honor seemed made for the underground world, for back alleys and illegal booze, for dimly lit dance floors and strangers holding each other close.

  She was tall for a woman and looked taller still because of the sharply tailored lines of her black trousers. Her crisp white shirt was open at the neck, framed by the stark lines of black suspenders. Her hair and makeup, by contrast, were almost defiantly feminine, her curly blond hair worn unfashionably long and pinned around her head, her full lips painted deep red. Those lips were curved in amusement as she eyed Vivian. “In the mood for a dance, pet?”

  Vivian ignored Danny and Bea’s twin smirks as she shook her head, hoping she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. She had spent months hoping the Nightingale’s glamorous owner would remember her name. Now that she knew Honor did remember, more than remember, Vivian wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do about that.

  “Thanks for the offer, but Bea’s only got ten more minutes on her break, and that’s all the time we get together.” Vivian took a gulp of her champagne and added recklessly, “Maybe later tonight?”

  Honor raised an eyebrow, as if Vivian had surprised her, and her smile grew. “Maybe later,” she agreed before turning to Danny, her expression growing more serious. “Where is she?”

  “Missed the waltz—probably in the ladies’, but it’s not like I can follow her there. She just got back in time to snag a partner for this one. Looks like a classy gent,” he replied. “Seems to be holding her own all right.”

  Honor nodded. “I’ll be around. Get my attention if you notice anything. Beatrice—” She smiled. “Take an extra ten on your break. You’re lucky to have such a sweet friend.” Her eyes rested on Vivian a moment before something else caught her attention and she disappeared back into the crowd.

  “I do have a sweet friend,” Bea agreed, leaning over to bump her shoulder against Vivian’s. “Pour me another, Danny, I get an extra ten. Who’s she having you watch tonight?”

  “You still shouldn’t get smoked when you’re working,” he pointed out, but he was already pulling out gin and the last of a bottle of champagne. He nodded at the dance floor, chin tipping toward the corner where a mousy-looking girl in cheap shoes was dancing. “New girl.”

  Bea laughed. “Lord above, she looks as terrified as you did your first night here, Viv.”

  Vivian frowned. “Why are you watching her?”

  Danny shrugged. “Because Hux told me to, and I do what Hux says.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes. “Sure, but why did she tell you to?” She lowered her voice, though there wasn’t much need. The band and the crowd were both loud enough that anyone who wanted to eavesdrop would have to sit practically in her lap to overhear. “Does she always tell you to keep an eye on people?”

  “Most nights. Honor likes to know what’s going on in her joint,” Bea said carelessly, then raised a brow at Danny’s suddenly pointed look. “Oh come on, who’s she gonna tell?”

  “Sometimes it’s a fella who looks likely to cause trouble,” Danny said, relenting. “Or someone who might try to duck out instead of paying. Tonight it’s a first-timer.” He glanced back at the girl he had indicated before, and Vivian couldn’t help following his lead, though Bea didn’t look away from her drink. “I’d say it’s her first time out at all, not just here. Though she can dance decent enough, I’ll give her that.”

  Vivian frowned. “Why watch a girl who’s not making trouble?”

  “To make sure she doesn’t find any.” Bea took a long swallow of the second drink that Danny handed her and sighed with pleasure. “Lord love you for treating the staff to the good stuff too, honey. Honor doesn’t like it when men bother women in her place. So we keep an eye on them. Same reason she had Danny watch out for you when you first started dancing here.”

  “She had you watch me?” Vivian could feel her cheeks getting hot again. “For how long?”

  “Only one night, kitten. Bea told her you were made of tough stuff, and after that we left you to fend for yourself. I guess Hux just keeps her own eye on you now,” he added with a wink.

  Vivian rolled her eyes at his teasing, though she could feel her blush spreading. “You still got my purse back there, Danny?” When he handed the tiny beaded bag over—stashing her things behind the bar was a perk that Bea always arranged for her—Vivian slid off her stool. “Gonna go powder my nose. Bea, don’t drink all my champagne while I’m gone.”

  “You barely left enough for me to swipe anyway!”

  Vivian grinned at her friend’s grumpy protest as she made her way through the crowd. The doorway at the end of the bar led to a long corridor, ending in one staircase up and one door. The door led to the alley, where cases of booze were delivered at dusk and sweaty couples went to neck in the shadows. At the top of the staircase, according to Bea, were the rooms that the club owner sometimes lived in. Halfway up, another door, always locked, led to Honor Huxley’s office. Only select patrons were ever invited up there—or ones who caused the kind of trouble that was dealt with out of earshot of the rest of the club.

  Vivian ducked into the ladies’ powder room, the first door after the dance hall. The noise level barely decreased as the door swung shut behind her.

  Inside, women reapplied lipstick in a cloud of smoke and Shalimar, stretched out aching feet, and chatted about their partners of the night and the husbands and fathers that waited—knowingly or unknowingly—at home. Vivian smiled at the girls she knew as she ducked into the adjoining room and waited her turn, eventually making her way back to the powder room to check her paint. The space in front of the mirror was crowded, though. Just as she found a corner where she could catch her own reflection, someone jostled her elbow. She dropped her lipstick, half the tube’s contents smearing into the carpet.

  “Damn,” Vivian muttered, bending down to retrieve it.

  “Oh golly, I’m sorry.” The nervous girl who’d bumped her peered at the damage, and Vivian recognized the new girl Danny had pointed out on the danc
e floor. “Any hope for it?”

  “Probably not,” Vivian said, forcing a smile. It was hard to do—makeup was an indulgence, as both the weeks of saving and her sister’s disapproving sighs reminded her—but the girl looked so flustered that Vivian didn’t have it in her to get upset. “Honest, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

  “I really am sorry,” the girl said again, glancing around as if looking for something helpful to do, before she was jostled out of the way by the press of sweaty, glitzy bodies. Vivian eyed the ruined stick of color warily, trying to decide whether it could be saved.

  “I wouldn’t recommend putting that anywhere near your mouth after it’s been on this floor,” someone said. It was the stylish brunette who had claimed Mr. Lawrence for the Charleston. She gave Vivian a friendly nudge with her elbow. “It’s a jungle, isn’t it? Here.” She fished in her purse and handed her own lipstick over to Vivian. “Use mine, doll.”

  “Thanks.” Vivian slid the color over her lips with a practiced flick. “It’s Margaret, isn’t it? I’ve seen you here before.”

  “Mags, I beg you. Only Mother and Dad call me Margaret.” The brunette made a pouting grimace in the mirror, then laughed. “Sorry I stole Laurie from you out there. He’s such a sweet old thing, isn’t he? How did you get so chummy with the bartender? He won’t give me the time of day, cruel man.”

  “My friend’s one of the waitresses here,” Vivian said. She tried to hand the lipstick back, but Mags gestured her away with a careless wave.

  “Keep it, honey, it looks swell on you.”

  Vivian glanced down at the lipstick in her hand. The tiny silver tube had a red stone on the cap—the sort that was part of a set, that you could take to a makeup counter and have refilled with your personal shade when you used it up. It probably cost more than the shoes she was wearing. She closed her hand around it enviously, then hesitated. “You sure?”