TWENTY FOUR
Ella locked her apartment door fast behind her, then wrung her hands as she moved into the kitchen, straight for the gin bottle. She was choked with a confusing mixture of feelings. As much as she desperately feared the flatheaded criminal she had become involved with, she didn't want to stop seeing him. As stoic and unforthcoming as he was, she was rather wretchedly growing attached to him - his strange composure and laidback machismo oddly attractive - yet the thought of him hurting people was unbearable. She didn't want to become involved with such things or tacitly excuse them by being with him either.
The obvious solution was to break it off - but she neither wanted to or was even really sure that she could. Ella sipped from her gin as she stood in her dark kitchen and wondered if her life was ever going to be normal or easy again.
There was an angry knock at the door, so abrupt she started and spilled her gin. She glanced down the hall, biting her lower lip, her anxiety intensified. There was no doubt in her mind who it would be.
Flattop pushed the door hard inwards as soon as she turned the handle. He brushed past her brusquely, the glower on his face the most animated emotion she may ever have seen him show.
She hurried after him as he strode into the living room, still in his immaculate tuxedo, hands thrust loosely in his pockets, tapping one foot on the faded rug when he came to a halt, his back to her.
Nervously, she hovered at the door and waited.
After a moment he turned to her, his lips twisted in a cynical frown, hooded eyes narrowed.
"Not feeling well, hm?" he sneered, his voice low and harsh.
Her heart pounded in her chest and her skin tingled but she lifted her chin and gazed back at him. "No. I'm not."
He tilted his head back a little, surveyed her. "Lorrie said it was gut trouble."
Ella nodded. "I've been queasy all day."
Flattop shifted his weight and lowered his head, fixing her with a fearsome stare.
"You knocked up?"
Ella was taken aback by the question and then remembered the suspicious way Dolores had eyeballed her back in the dressing room. Of course her mind would naturally leap to the most troublesome cause of female stomach complaints and no doubt she had insinuated that cause when communicating Ella's message to Flattop.
"No!" she cried back defensively. "No, I'm not."
Flattop raised one brow and eyed her skeptically.
"You better be straight with me, kiddo," he walked towards her, hands still casually jammed misleadingly in his pockets, betrayed by the tenseness of his shoulders.
Ella trembled and took a half step back, then held her ground. "I am," she cried, a note of hysteria in her voice. "I've been taking precautions. No thanks to you!"
Flattop stopped and blinked, evidently a little taken aback by her back talk. But it was only a split second and then he was composed once more, shoulders relaxing into their usual languid slope, his expression again indifferent.
"Watch your mouth, sweetheart," he said easily, then turned away toward the kitchen where the gin bottle stood on the counter. "And you better not ever keep somethin' like that from me. Already got one brat back in the Hills, don't need another."
Ella was shaken to the core by his revelation, her knees buckling so that she leaned up against the wall, the old flowered wallpaper crackling a little against her weight. A child! He had a child somewhere out there in the world! It was too awful to conscience because, if he had a child then that meant -
"You're married?" she heard herself query dully, her head rolling on her neck towards him as he poured himself a glass of neat gin.
Flattop shot her a disdainful glance then took a sip of the liquor. "What's it to ya?" he sneered and in a surge of sudden hysteria, Ella flung herself from the wall towards him and shrieked:
"Are you married, you ratfink?"
His hand flew up so quick she was not aware he had even moved until the slap connected with her cheek. He didn't put a lot of force behind it and it was more the shock that had her reeling, then blinking at him with quickly-watering eyes, her hand flying up to touch her cheek. Flattop stared down at her measuredly, hardness in his eyes.
"I said, watch your mouth," he pointed a gloved finger at her. "Don't make me hit you, Ella honey. I hate hittin' dames."
Ella gazed up at him, shaken. He'd barely touched her and there was no sting - he'd wanted simply to make a point. But she was still frightened and could not stop the two tears that slid down her cheeks though she then drew in a shaky breath to calm herself.
Flattop stared down at her dispassionately, his full lips slightly parted, then shook his head a little.
"I don't know what you want from me, Ella," he said bluntly and took another sip of the gin before grasping one of her hands and pushing the glass into it. "Seems to me I do just fine by you. You can be one damn dingy skirt but it's your company I keep any old style. So what's your beef here?"
Ella drank the gin with a shaking hand as he spoke, at a loss to explain to him why she was upset if he did not simply understand. A child by another woman with whom he was possibly still involved, the fact he was a crook, possibly even a killer - and finally, the realisation dawned on her, that he had come to see her not out of concern for her apparent illhealth, but to ensure she wasn't going to bring his life any extra complications.
"Who was that man, this afternoon?" she asked shakily over the rim of the glass, her eyes lowered.
From her peripheral, she saw him shift his weight.
"I told ya, my business ain't none of yours," he sniped.
"What did you do with him?" she pushed on recklessly, suddenly needing to know.
Flattop stepped forward and grasped her hard by the arms, giving her a little shake. She tipped her head back and gazed up at him, into a face that showed no expression save for a glint of fury deep in his hazel eyes.
"I ain't gonna tell you again, babe," he said through his teeth. "Ain't none of your concern. Now," he made a mockery of relenting, patting her shoulders firmly. "Don't make me worry about you."
Ella inhaled then felt her teeth grit. She knew the way she was behaving was madness, that she was pushing the collected gangster to the limit, but she seemed unable to stop. "As if you could!" she hissed back.
Flattop glared down at her for a moment, eyes narrowing, then abruptly his expression eased and he let go of her arms roughly with a short laugh, turning away from her and reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes.
"Is that what this is all about?" there was an undercurrent of amusement to his voice as he lit a cigarette and puffed. "You're sore cos you think I don't care about you illin'? Well, ain't that rich. Gettin' up in my grill like a right shrew just cos I ain't sweet-talkin' you like some sorta sucker. Ain't that just like a dame."
His last words were a statement, uttered with a shaking head and a little chuckle. He drew back on his cigarette and puffed the smoke out slowly, eyeing her with a little grin.
"C'mon, dollface, you and me have a swell time, so don't go screwin' it up with no feminine wiles nonsense, okay?"
Ella was both confounded and infuriated. Since Flattop had decided she was just being a silly little girl, his irritation had evaporated - only to be replaced with amused condescension. Even her outraged countenance evoked in him nothing more than a humouring smile and a click of his tongue as he stepped toward her again.
"C'mere and gimme a honey cooler," he drawled, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and bending his head to hers, kissing her.
Even as she bristled at being so patronised and wrestled with her dismay that not one thing that upset her had been resolved, the intensity of his kiss pulled her in so that she swooned slightly and gave in. His strong arms around her were deceptive - she felt suddenly safe and cared for and the lure of such sensation was impossible to resist after all the heartache she had been through that day. After all, she couldn't argue with the plain facts, however distorted and murky the rest of his story may be - he was here, with her. Not with Babs, or with any of the other girls she'd seen come and go, not even with the mother of his child. Just her - and didn't that mean she was special?
It had to.
Ella kissed Flattop fiercely back, finding that the longer she felt the strength of his arms and the solidness of his chest - the longer she was pressed against the body she was coming to know so well and find so much pleasure and comfort in - the more the memory of that strange man's haunted face dwindled and with it, the last remaining vestiges of her concern and fear.
Flattop finished the kiss and pulled away from her slowly, smirking a little as he looked down at her. "Now that's more like it," he drawled, petting her on the bottom. "C'mon, kiddo, get your coat. I wanna show you somethin'."
ooo
Parked in front of her building, a brilliant royal blue that winked beneath the street lamps, an impossibly fancy car sat, causing Ella to stop and stare as Flattop sauntered over to it and ran a gloved hand down the long nose of the hood.
"Not bad, huh?" he glanced back at her as she stepped over beside him, admiring the high sheen of the finish with wide eyes.
"Yours?" she queried softly and he snorted.
"No kiddin'. Fresh off the line. Cadillac V-16," the pride in Flattop's voice was unmistakeable as he walked around the car, his fingers caressing the full-figured woman with outstretched wings who adorned the hood. "Convertible sedan, one-four-six-inch wheelbase, sixteen cylinder engine, each one with its own exhaust and fuel system." Flattop popped the hood, revealing a complicated behemoth of an engine. "'S got hydraulic valve adjusters, total of four-fifty-two cubic inches, and all of it finished in chrome, aluminium, porcelain and enamel. Ain't no match for it out there."
Ella didn't understand a single word he was saying and didn't care much, but nodded along silently as he continued to admire the vehicle, seeming unable to take his eyes off it. "Four bar bumpers, fully-skirted fenders and vee'd grille," he slammed shut the hood and moved around to the driver's window, gesturing to the car's interior. "Pigskin leather upholstery, burled walnut panels inside," he finished with a note of satisfaction, then straighened up and leaned casually against the vehicle's side, regarding Ella implacably. "Six-thousand clams."
Ella felt her head grow light and seemed to sway on her feet a little as the cost of the impressive vehicle sunk in.
"Six thousand dollars?" she held herself gasp and he shrugged.
"Yeah. Well, Six-thousand, two-hundred and fifty. But, yannow. Round about." He cocked his head to the side and his lip quirked upwards a touch.
Ella stared at the car with its rich blue paint and black canvas top and felt a little ill. The concept of spending so much money - the same amount of money that could buy a house! - on a car was beyond all belief. That this man - this man she was dating - screwing when it came right down to it - could spend so much, so easily in a time when so many people were going without - it was obscene and vulgar and terribly, horribly enticing.
Flattop smirked at her as she gazed, slack-jawed, at the car and then strode back around to the passenger's side and opened the door for her.
"Let's go for a ride," he said.
Ella could feel the power of the car thrumming around her as Flattop drove, steadily pushing down hard on the accelerator so that the houses crowding the streets zipped by. They had the radio on and turned up, the hottest Dixieland Jazz blaring through the speaker. The rich leather smelt new, its pebbled surface cool against her hands but quickly warming as she sat close beside Flattop and watched him drive. He was clearly enjoying himself, smirking as he sped through the city, smiling when he took the corners hard. He rounded one bend so hard the tyres squealed and Ella clung to him in fright but he only laughed in his husky way and pushed the car harder. Ella's heart pounded a stacatto rhythm in syncopation to the lively jazz and she rattled, jerked and shook in time with each bump on the road.
At such a late hour there was little traffic to be found on the streets, which was a relief - Flattop seemed to find a thrill in ducking and swerving around the other vehicles in an alarming manner and Ella wondered they hadn't been persued by the police yet. Though really, being pulled over for speeding was probably the least of Flattop Jones' concerns when it came to entanglements with law enforcement. Briefly, the memory of that vanished man rose up again, but she pushed it away and huddled next to the mobster as he drove down to the bay by the bridge.
The river was still and quiet, its dense darkness spotted with light reflection from the city swimming brilliantly on the surface. Flattop parked the car and sighed with a deep and languid satisfaction, gently holding onto the steering wheel and looking reflectively at it for a moment with langorous, affectionate eyes.
Ella thought that if he had been another man she might have found his obvious adoration of the car rather amusing - she may even have teased him a little for it. But she knew better than to do such a thing with the sort of man he was. Nonetheless she watched him keenly, realising she was being given another little insight into the parts that made up his whole.
After a moment he let go the wheel and reached over to squeeze her knee, turning his head a little to the side to glance at her, cupid's lips edging up at the corners just a touch.
Ella stared up into his hazel eyes, black in the dim light, and smiled a little back. "What a ride," she said, her voice a little forced.
He snorted then got abruptly out of the car.
Ella watched him go, a little surprised, hearing his feet crunch on the gravel as he walked around the car. She glanced back out over the river and wondered suddenly what they were doing there at all. An unwelcome recollection sprung up - that of bodies of gangsters and shaken-down business men being washed ashore - and shivered in the car, fear spiking her heart. Did the river now hold the cold, motionless body of that man she'd seen this afternoon? That man upon whose shoulder Flattop's hand had rested?
And why had he brought her here?
The passenger door clicked as Flattop opened it and she started and stared at him as he held out his leather-gloved hand to her. She hesitated a moment, her heart again pounding, then took it, telling herself she was being ridiculous and hysterical.
He regarded her from lowered lids, then took her by the hips and tugged her close to him. Thrilled by his strength and the heat of his body in contrast to their gloomy surroundings and her own anxiety, she responded to the kiss fiercer than she expected, the only sound around them the steady lapping of the water at the bank.
Flattop finished the kiss, then opened the backdoor of the car, pulling from a specially installed brace an icebucket holding a bottle of Bollinger, followed by two champagne flutes. He handed them to her, then wrapped his fist around the bottle neck and twisted hard.
"Let's see how much of a ride it really was," he rasped and the cork popped, champagne fizzing excitedly out of the bottle and Ella squealed and sidestepped it as it splattered and hissed.
Flattop chuckled and filled their glasses, jamming the half-empty bottle into the gravel and then taking her by the hand to lead her around to the front of the cadillac.
"To having pretty things," he held up his glass to her and glanced first at the car and then, more lingeringly, at her, his eyes flickering from her face down her body. Ella flushed at the insinuation and glanced down, drinking quickly.
He drained his glass immediately, then came towards her, putting his hands about her waist and lifting her up onto the bonnet of the cadillac, settling her there before stepping back and stroking gloved fingers through her hair. Ella was a little surprised, resting a hand against the shiny hood for balance, trying not to spill her champagne or dig her heels against the paint.
"Now, how'd you like to get this on a postcard," Flattop muttered, gazing at them both and Ella realised this was about the best compliment he'd ever given her and was pleased enough to be struck with a little playfulness, lifting the champagne glass to her lips and striking a little pose, leaning back on one arm and looking up at him coyly from below her lashes.
He laughed a little, which pleased her, then came forward and took the glass from her hands, placing it down on the ground beside his own.
The nose of the car dipped as he slid his arms around her and pulled her in for a kiss. She clung to him, a little nervous about falling off, but he remained unconcerned, slipping a hand back around to delve inbetween her knees, urging her legs apart so he could stand inbetween them.
Immediately she tensed up, concerned about where things would head and sure enough, a moment later one hand began to work its way up her thigh, beneath her gown, his hand gripping her leg leather glove was smooth against her stocking, eliciting a pleasant tickle from her flesh that she fought to suppress. Flattop kissed her harder, his tongue pushing into her mouth, forcing her to submit to his desire. A cool breeze from the river whipped around them, bringing with it the scent of brine and ramming home all the harder how very public their situation was. While Ella continued to kiss him, her mind was frantically pondering how she could discourage his attentions, urge him to take them somewhere more private. She knew it was unlikely anyone would come across them down there at that lonely place, but nonetheless the whole situation seemed too vulgar to bear.
A moment later and he pulled his hand out from beneath the silk skirt of her dress and she felt a moment relief as he broke the kiss roughly and stepped back. But he was only pausing to tear off his gloves and shove them into his overcoat pocket, his brow puckered with fast-growing frustration and desire. When he stepped back to her, he yanked her hard against him and she felt his lust pushing hard into her groin. His lips pressed hotly against her neck and along her jaw, his breath coming hard and heavy in her ears. At any other time she would've been thrilled and responding with the fever she was coming to embrace, but right then she could not relax.
His hips moved away from her groin only to be replaced by his now-bare hand. He hissed a sigh out between his teeth when his fingers came into contact with her softest flesh, and bit the lobe of her ear gently. His hands were very adept at awakening her body now and she struggled against the pleasurable feeling as he caught her lips up in a kiss again.
Desperate now to be understood, she struggled against him, the car rocking beneath her with the movement, then grasped the wrist of the hand that worked at her. He pulled away from her with a frown, twisting his wrist easily free from her grip.
"What?" he snapped and she blanched, heart skittering, feeling disarrayed and confusingly both aroused and repelled.
"Not out here," she entreated in a whisper, as though fearful someone might be nearby to overhear.
Flattop snickered a little, mollified. "You are so damn cute," he chucked her under the chin, stepping close to her again. "There ain't no one around to care, baby doll."
She wiggled on the car, feeling again the total disconnect between their perspectives.
"It's just seems so cheap," she insisted, pushing down on his hands as they rose to touch her again.
This time he snorted. "Babe, there ain't nothin' cheap about this car," he caught her wrists up in his hands, bringing them down to her sides before releasing them to slide his arms around her waist again, quicker than she could stop him. "This car cost more than your whole damn life has to this date."
Ella felt slighted by that and burned with shame, wishing she knew how to counter such a remark, hating that he could see such a thing.
Flattop grasped her by the chin and forced her to look at him.
"What?" he demanded again. "Ya think I didn't grow up poor and wantin' more? Think I'm gonna pretend like I ain't made it good? Why's the truth always get you in such a twist anyway?"
His words stilled her, made her reflect on her feelings. Her family had always frowned on showiness and poor manners - things associated with the lower classes and they had not been poor. Not rich, but most certainly not poor and there was nothing that horrified her mother more than the thought of being mistaken for lower class. She had violently detested what was known as nouveau riche, characterising them as typically vulgar and flashy - the means to live well but with none of the taste or breeding that came with custom and had drilled correct behaviour into her girls with all the force of a sergeant. They may not have been rich, but they could behave as though they were.
Flattop Jones as poor was a new thought to Ella, but it quickly began to make sense as she reflected on the many instances of his disdain for propriety. It wasn't hard to imagine such behaviour as far more than poor breeding - but an open message: he had the means to do what he wanted, as he wanted, no matter what anyone thought - money was power, especially right then.
Ella didn't want to have sex on the hood of a car - even a ridiculously expensive one - out in the open, on display. But she did begin to wonder why she felt that way and to remember that she had already broken a dozen of her mother's rules anyway. Looking at the gangster, she could see he was only half-interested in her answer, his own mind already well made up - and she had to admire than about him, that he was always so sure about himself, so absolutely convinced of his own actions and deeds.
"You make me think about things I never have before," she said to him, though not really as an answer.
His brow flickered and he half-grinned, seeming slightly perplexed. But a second later he was dismissive again. "Now what's a pretty thing like you need to worry about thinkin'?" He pushed her hair back over her ear and she gazed up at his odd face with its hooded eyes and pug nose, trying to work out if he were joking or not. Sometimes it was so hard to read him. He smirked at her ponderous expression and tweaked her lower lip. "There you go again. Quit it."
He tugged her to him and kissed her again and she went along with it easier this time. They never seemed really to resolve anything but somehow it didn't matter. He confounded her and she vexed him, yet she had no real desire to stop seeing him - and he seemed to want her around regardless. It seemed enough, in the end.
So she let him push her skirts up, the midnight blue of them mingling with the rich blue of the cadillac paint, and wrapped her legs around his waist as he tucked a hand beneath her buttocks, his other fumbling with the fastening of his trousers as he kissed her roughly, sucking quickly on her lip and flickering his tongue against hers.
The kiss broke when he pushed inside her and she clung hard to his shoulders and buried her face in his neck as another cool breeze whipped around them, chilling her thighs beneath the stockings, reminding her how exposed they were. She shut her eyes tight and breathed in the scent of his skin, not wanting to see the gleam of the city lights or the indigo sky above them. The car creaked beneath them, rocking hard with his thrusts and she tried to block the sound out, concentrating only on his harsh breathing, the way he felt moving inside her. Flattop gripped her hard and she heard him grunt a little and found herself tightening in response, which illicited a small note of appreciation from his throat.
He pushed her back down onto the hood, a hand on either side of her head, propping himself up to look down at her sprawled on the bonnet of his cadillac. His gaze grew hazy and satisfied as he looked her over, a hand sliding over her breast and squeezing it. In such a position, she could not hide from the knowledge of their all-too-public location, but she ignored it as best she could, focusing all her attention on him and the undeniably pleasurable feeling of him moving inside her.
Ella was too self-conscious to climax, but felt an immense contentment when he did, pushing his weight down on her for a moment and twining a hand in her hair, so hard he disarrayed its careful coif.
When he was finished, he sighed in the same satisfied way he had at the wheel of his new car and she felt immensely flattered.
Likewise was she pleased when he took her back to his place for the night instead of driving her home, giving her a glass of champagne to sip as he navigated the streets at a far more sedate pace.
"Thanks for helping me christen the caddy, kid," he drawled around a cigar and she surprised herself by not blushing at all, then attributed it to the champagne.
ooo
Wow! Long time, no update. Just too busy and all - you know how it is! But I have not lost interest in this story, and given that I've been reading a few factual books about the 1920s - 1930s lately, I want all the more to return to it. More chapters coming!