A/N: Here's an old-fashioned flashback, with references to The Thin Man, Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, and The Glass Key. So yes, in answer to some of your questions, I watch a ton of old movies. I used to watch them a lot more, so their kind of lingo was effortless to write. It's a bit harder now. I just think that's the fun of doing a '40s period piece, which a lot of films and books miss out on these days.
Korsak is the contactor. Frost is the P.I. And I solve mysteries. All in all, it's a pretty good system: Korsak's an old white guy who looks like a copper, so people feel comfortable in telling him their problems, and they're more likely to open up if he makes an offer to assist them. Frost's skin color is a help and a hindrance at the same time—there are some places that won't let him in, but a lot of the time, he finds out things because people tend to overlook him. It's a crap world for it, but those are the breaks. I don't know if people just think he ain't listening, or he ain't smart, or what—but Frost's been on top of some pretty important cases. He's a smart guy.
Frost and I are a bit alike in that way. I'm not smart as him, but people tend to underestimate us. People expect lugs like Korsak to be a cop. They don't expect me or Frost. Korsak likes to joke that my woman's intuition is what makes me a great snooper. Apparently, dolls get hung up on small details that men just don't ever seem to notice, and while I can't speak for other women, I guess that might be true in some instances. And I don't like to start things without finishing them, so I never let a case remain unsolved.
Boston's a town with a lot of secrets. Everything seems hunky-dory on the surface, ever since the war started. It seems like half of us started depending on people even more than before, bringing us closer together as a country, but the other half—the half that's rarely above ground—wants to exploit people's nightmares. Why these gangsters couldn't just go over and kill Nazis or the Japanese instead of their fellow Americans always baffled me. "Freedom from fear" my ass.
Anyhow.
Three weeks ago, Frost got a call from a Mr. Harry Lawrence, a pretty esteemed merchant in the area. He also happens to be black, and has thankfully managed to avoid any serious harassment. His store draws a lot of black customers, of course, and I guess it must be nice to be able to go shop someplace without having salesclerks popping up every five seconds to make sure you haven't glaumed anything. I don't know if Frost ever went to Lawrence's store, but that's beside the point. Lawrence asked Frost to tail his wife, to get the wire on her. The Mrs. hadn't been getting back until late at night for the last couple of weeks. Not every night, but often enough that Lawrence was starting to get suspicious. And I don't blame him: he's nearing sixty and just dizzy about his wife, a real dish who couldn't have yet been thirty. A gold-digger if there ever was one.
One night, Frost managed to follow her to one of the less reputable streets in our fine town. It was near midnight, and the street was almost empty. He said he got the impression that Mrs. Lawrence knew she was being followed—she didn't do anything overt, like turn around or raise her eyebrows at him or anything, but when you've been a P.I. as long as Frost, you pick up on subtle hints. She ducked into a side alley, and instead of turning after her, he walked a little further and went across the street. From this faraway diagonal perspective, he could still see where she went. He waited a few minutes, then approached the door he had seen her go through.
He knocked and said for minute he felt like he was back at a speakeasy: instead of opening the door, a woman pulled back a little grille at eye-level. She stared at him and was about to close it again when he said, "Please. That woman who just walked in—she been here before?"
"Don't know who you're talking about," the woman said before closing the grille in his face.
Frost wondered if maybe Mrs. Lawrence had just stepped in there to shake him off. But he kept going back to that alley late at night, and kept seeing women of all colors surreptitiously enter the door, Mrs. Lawrence often among them. This is what clued him in that he hadn't been kept out according to his race but to his gender. Time for me to give this a shot. We both knew what this was probably leading up to: a back-alley club that allowed female patrons only seemed pretty straightforward.
I wore my best pair of slacks and sensible shoes to go with the white button-up shirt I had on under a black blazer. The shoulder pads were a bit too Joan Crawford for my liking, but they sent out the message that I was not a woman looking to be dominated or be coy. The world better get out of my damn way, and fast, unless it wants a paddle to the ass. I went pretty light on the makeup, just some eyeliner and a little lipstick that was barely noticeable. Frost always told me that it didn't matter if I wore makeup or not; people always noticed me. He's sweet.
The address was too far away to walk, so at around ten o'clock I boarded a bus and headed over to that part of town. As was my custom, I sat in the last row—fewer questions that way. I have to admit, the prospect of this case excited me. Of course I would keep things professional, but a little fondling wouldn't hurt… and I was sure there would be fondling.
Perhaps I should explain: I've been with men. I've known them in a biblical way. But the first time I ever felt really, actually alive with sex was the first time I touched another woman. It was just before the war broke out, and I was closing shop for my brother Tommy—he had a part-time job working at a garage owned by the Gilberti's, the only other Italians on our street. They trusted me enough to get the job done whenever my unreliable brother was off chasing a skirt. A girl maybe a year or two older than me came in after everyone else had left, and I was checking the parts and the cars in the shop, making sure nobody had taken off with anything. After a while, I noticed this girl standing there, biting her lip, staring at me like I was the last man on earth—which was strange, because I was not a man, and we hadn't even joined the war yet so there was no danger of a sudden male shortage.
Something overtook me. I straightened up and when I asked her if there was something she needed, I could've sworn she moaned. I recognized the throbbing between my legs and suddenly knew I had to kiss this girl. It struck me in that moment that for years, I hadn't been envying beautiful women of their looks; I had been craving the sensation of my lips on theirs, my hands on their bodies, my name in their breathless gasps. So I led this woman back to Gilberti's tiny pigsty of an office, hiked her skirt up, and sucked on her neck as I slid my hand between her legs. It felt amazing. Sex with men wasn't like this. This was the real McCoy.
I never saw her again.
But I saw others. Plenty. In gas station restrooms, in near-empty movie theaters, in alleys at night. Anywhere dark, anywhere secret. Anywhere I could be anonymous. Some of them recognized me, some of them even found out my name. But I never saw a woman more than once—maybe twice, tops. It just couldn't go anyplace. Ma will be begging for me to get married until I die (because she will outlive me). I'll probably tie the knot at some point. I still like men somewhat. I could marry Casey, for example, if he ever came home from Japan. It'd be settling, and I knew it. But sometimes people have to settle.
A woman's heart is a lonely place.
Before she croaked, my grandmother asked me to come stay the night at her apartment. I was ten. We didn't talk much all night long, until she got into bed. My grandfather had been dead for twenty years. It was a big bed and she was all alone in it. I sat in the chair next to her, waiting for her to say goodnight. Instead, she turned to look at me and said "A woman's heart is a lonely place." That night, she took the big sleep: she died the next morning.
Her words nagged me for years. I've never really considered myself lonely; I'm too upfront and outgoing for that. But lately I've been thinking that I am in the business of finding out other people's secrets without ever divulging my own to anyone. I don't even let women get physically close with me; I get inside them, I taste them, but I never give them the chance to reciprocate. Not sure why. Maybe I'm still waiting for the right one to come along. Maybe I don't want anyone but a man ever touching me there. Maybe I just like having power over someone who doesn't mind being overpowered.
Or maybe I have no heart and that's why it aches so much, so often.
My thoughts were disturbed when an attractive woman came and sat next to me. Her hair was swept up and her dress showed a bit more skin than was decent and I couldn't place her color right away. I probably eyed her for a bit too long; it looked like she smirked at me before pulling out a fan magazine with Ingrid Bergman on the cover. We struck up a conversation about movies. I find movie stars fascinating; they're like mysteries in their own way. Why do they act a certain way, dress a certain way, get picked for certain roles? As this woman and I talked, I realized the same names kept cropping up—Garbo, Dietrich, Hepburn: paragons of beautiful androgyny, all of them.
"I'm Claire, by the way," she said, extending her hand for me to shake.
"Jane. So Claire, where are you off to at this hour?"
"A friend of mine is throwing a party."
"On the far side of town?"
She nodded. "I haven't got a date, though…" Her hand brushed against my knee, and I got the message we had already been dancing around.
"Would you like me to take you?" I asked in the lowest voice I could muster.
A grin lit up her face. "That's sweet of you, Jane. But I wouldn't want you to get offended if I gave you the gate and went home with somebody else. You know, in case I meet someone there."
"Whoever she is will be a lucky girl, I'm sure." Normally I might have considered being this upfront to be throwing caution to the winds, but considering how Claire had been interacting with me, caution had really flown out the bus window as soon as she'd boarded. And if I had been completely off base (which I knew I wasn't), the bus was slowing down now anyway and I could get off if I wanted to.
But as I knew it would, my brazenness amused her. "You should come along," she said, giving me the address. It was the one Frost had told me to go to. "Wear a mask. Tell them Claire sent you."
I shifted to get up, and she stood to let me pass. The seats were narrow, and as I passed her, her breasts touched my arm and I saw her shiver. "Maybe I'll see you around then," I husked before walking down the aisle.
The only reason I got out then was because apparently I needed to purchase a mask of some kind. I had no idea what to expect or what would be expected of me, but I did know of a pretty decent costume shop nearby. Problem: it was 10:30 at night, and the store would have been closed for several hours. Fortunately I knew the proprietor, and furthermore I knew that he lived above his shop, so I just knocked until he came down to open the door. He and I went way back, to the day when I sent his brother up the river, allowing the boob to marry his brother's girl. His gratitude seemed to be wearing thin: when I told him what I wanted, he tossed a kid's Zorro mask at me and told me to scram. The chiseler—it was basically a black sash with two eye-holes cut into it. I could have made it.
That said, it didn't look too bad on me. I went into the restroom of a nearby hash house to test it out and pulled my hair up into a bun. If only I had a mustache, I think I'd have pulled off Tyrone Power very convincingly.
By the time I got to the alley, it was a little after eleven. I slipped the mask back into place and knocked on the door. The little grille opened, and a woman asked, "Password?"
"Claire sent me."
The door opened and I walked coolly inside, belying the fact that I thought I'd just died and went to heaven. There were more women packed into this dump than I'd ever seen in one place before, a bunch of girlies in gladrags. I didn't know where to look. I had to force myself to remember I was here on Frost's behalf, to find Mrs. Lawrence. It didn't take long: there wasn't much dark meat in the place. In fact, just the one. When I got close, I heard someone call her Fay, and that was that. Fay Lawrence was the woman I'd been looking for, and when I saw her necking with Claire, I got a pretty good idea what she was there for.
Still, I'd come all this way and gone to the trouble of procuring a mask. It'd be rude to drift right away.
So I made my way to the bar through the throng of masked women. I could only guess at why they were wearing masks—initially I figured it was so their identities would remain a secret, but someone had called Fay by her real name, so… what was the point? I got to the bar and ordered a scotch on the rocks. A redheaded chick with an enormous chest brought me the drink, and I asked her about the masks.
"You must be new here," she said with a smirk. "Tonight's Thursday. Thursdays are disguise night. Believe it or not, some broads don't like it out there that they've been to a place like this. You think you're fine 'cause it's late and it's dark, but all it takes is one crazy dame chasing you down main street in the middle of the afternoon before your sap of a husband figures out where you've been stepping out. Women who don't care come whenever they want. Women who do care know enough to come only on Thursdays."
She then tried her hand at flirting with me, but I very rudely ignored her. That makes me sound like a jerk, but It wasn't really my fault. How could I focus on anyone but the gorgeous blonde that had just caught my eye from across the room? Her lips were as red and glaring as traffic light, but instead of telling me to stop, they were telling me to come quick. Her hair was swept up in some sort of hairstyle I'm sure has a fancy name I've never heard. Like her.
I was surrounded by floozies and Park Avenue playgirls, but this dame was different. I could tell right away she was one of the patrons who only came on Thursdays. Women who dressed that nice were clearly lousy with jack, and needed the protection. Her mask was feathered and ornamental, but even from this distance her big hazel eyes were visible, and they were on me, despite the fact that there were about five other women clamoring for her attention. She held her martini like it was a scepter, she had a body like Mata Hari, she moved the way I think an angel would have to if he lost his wings and had to sort of just glide around on foot. This was a babe I bet some mug would bump somebody off for. What was her story, where did she come from, what was she doing here?
Her attention had finally been nabbed by a woman who looked pretty similar to me, a lanky brunette with a wicked jaw. Did she want me to come over there and stake a claim? Or did she even care at all? Whatever her game was, I wasn't going to play it her way. I do things on my own terms.
So I turned and asked the woman next to me if she'd like to dance. There was music going, but not really an official dance floor; women were just sort of swaying together in one part of the room. It was so crowded that it could hardly be called dancing. Perfect. I don't like to dance.
We got over there and I took one of her hands and put the other on her waist, and we were pressed together like sardines in a can. It didn't take long for me to figure out my partner had gone over the edge with the rams a long time ago—the whiskey on her breath, especially in our close quarters, was overwhelming. But at this point I didn't care, because it was making her mighty grabby with those gloved flippers of hers, and she was handling my ass like she'd been doing it her whole life.
Here, I realized, was the difference. Women I'd touched in the past, I don't think they'd ever done it before. I enjoyed holding that power over them. But it was nice to have a change like this, where the other person involved knew what she was doing and did it well, even when she was lit. I was still in control; she let me guide her hands. She was trying to leave a mark on my neck, but I pulled back to kiss her lips, to taste the juice on her breath. It was good …but I knew I could do better.
I finished the song with her and then went back to the bar, but I didn't want to drink anymore. After a while I asked the bartender if they had a horn I could use, but she directed me to a public phone across the street. That's where I went to call a cab. It had gotten too crowded down there. I can't stay crowded places too long, no matter how attractive the company. I couldn't hardly hear myself think.
When the cab pulled up, I made my way over and got inside. I gave him Frankie's address, but before he could drive off, the door next to me opened up and in slipped that high-society broad with the red-light lips.
"Mind if we share?" she purred.
Seeing as the cab had already started going, I didn't really have a choice. Not that I would have turned her down. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and that was with half her face covered. You could practically smell the money on her, aided by the fact that she was dripping in gold lamé and perfume I'd only ever caught a whiff of when I'd passed by the nicest department stores.
"Lovely party," she yawned.
Boy, she was smoked. I don't think she could have walked a straight line if Saks depended on it. "Yeah, nice," I muttered.
"You blew kind of early," she said.
"It was just time to dust out."
Out of nowhere, she lifted her legs and put them onto my lap. I looked up at the driver, but he seemed focused on the road. There was a plane of glass separating him from us, so he wouldn't be able to hear us, but he'd sure notice if he glanced in his rear view and saw us doing anything outside the realm of propriety. But maybe he'd just think we were friends, or sisters coming from a wacky costume party, if I kept from doing anything too randy.
"Phew, if my feet aren't killing me," she moaned, letting one she dangle until it fell to the floor of the cab. I moved my own foot out of the way. Those heels looked dangerous enough to kill.
"Maybe if you wore more sensible shoes," I whispered, taking her foot between my hands and gripping it tightly, "Your dogs wouldn't complain so much."
She giggled at the lingo. I figure women like her talk proper most of the time. Giggling gave way to moaning as I pressed harder, moving my hands up her leg, massaging it roughly. The noises coming out of her trap were starting to sound almost obscene, and even if the driver couldn't hear them, he would probably notice if the glass between us started fogging up. I recognized where this was going. I hadn't felt this way in the bar, even when I had been kissing that other dame. My body was telling me in no uncertain terms that it craved the feel of this woman right here, right now. Damn that barrier for being transparent.
I moved on to her other leg and asked her something I had never asked another woman in this kind of situation before: "What's your name?"
That was clearly a mistake. She withdrew her legs at once, but rather than just sit up, she vaulted herself at me like the jaw of a mousetrap ready to kill. Her hands were on either side of my head, her body pressed up against mine, her eyes dark as the sky outside. She could tell she had startled me, and I could tell she was proud of that fact. But I couldn't help glancing up at the front of the cab, and she registered my concern. Still, I was sorry when she backed up. And then I didn't know what to feel when she grabbed hold of one of my belt loops and dragged me closer.
She leaned in close to my ear, and I was barely able to understand her when she whispered, "Call me Ishmael" and giggled again. She took my earlobe between her teeth and massaged it a bit before pushing away once more.
"You're a real riot," I choked out.
"Yes, I'm told that a lot," she sighed, still grinning. We were on Frankie's street, and I fished out my wallet to get the driver's fee. The woman moved close again and said, "Would you take my number if not my name?"
One of her mitts was near my belt again. "You make a habit of giving your number to perfect strangers?" I asked.
"You know, it's funny," she said, "but just about every person I'm close to was a stranger at some point. Gimme a call sometime, huh? You know how to dial, don't you?" Her hand moved deftly between my legs, her thumb catching the zipper in the seam and dragging it down. I knew I was wet and she knew it too, and I could hear the smirk in her tone when she whispered into my neck, "You just put your finger in the little hole… and make circles."
Every swear word that has ever been invented and a great number more which would not come into vogue for several decades went soaring through my head. I accidentally dropped half the change in my wallet before stumbling out of the hack, which had just come to a stop. I paid the driver and ran out of there—or tried to. My legs felt about as sturdy as the little houses Tommy used to make out of oatmeal when he was a kid, and I tripped several times going up the stairs to Frankie's apartment.
Frankie was out of town visiting a friend from the service and had asked me to stop by and feed his fish, Napoleon. What a joke.
But Napoleon would have to wait a second. I had to finish what that woman had started, by myself, which was usually how I preferred doing things. This time, though …I don't think I'd have minded if she could've finished the job...
And now she's got me gumshoeing for her. Maura Isles. Unbelievable. We were behind the eight ball, both of us. I knew where she'd been that Thursday night. She may have been a regular customer, for all I knew. When she made her business proposition to me, I got the sense that she found the danger exciting. It could be fun having someone know her secret, to play around with. Well, she better watch herself. She's gonna get played right back.
