Chicago
June 8, 1920
The most unbelievable thing-no, Clara corrected herself, the most infuriating thing-was that Jimmy couldn't even be bothered to write. How much effort, really, was putting pen to paper to scrawl a few words? Find a stamp, walk it to the post office? Perhaps toss in a few dollars for Angela and Tommy.
Clara felt her father's eye on her and purposefully relaxed her face. Ever since the War her father had treated her like he was still the Sheriff and she was a particularly shifty suspect he wished to run out of town to a new life as quickly as possible. And goodness, when had they last spent so much time together? One train to Philadelphia (she had hoped they would take the 20th Century limited out of New York, but her father had disagreed), and then twenty hours on the Broadway Limited. Naturally, they each had their own bedroom on the train (Clara had a vague idea Eddie had a Pullman berth). Still, it was a lot of time together.
The car was speeding from Union Station to the Blackstone Hotel when her father finally spoke.
"It's not like you to go along with my plans so easily," he said while drawing a cigarette from his silver case.
It had been so long since Clara had one, and suddenly she wanted one badly. Never, though, would she ask her father.
Clara smiled her brightest smile even as her fingers twisted the light fabric of her skirt. "My goodness, Father! Who wouldn't be thrilled to attend the Presidential convention. It's always been said that Alice Roosevelt only began to love attending once they moved them to Chicago. Plus, now I'm old enough to properly enjoy everything. I was just getting ready to leave for college last time. And it looks very likely I'll even be able to cast my vote in November!"
"I would have preferred it if Darcy accompanied us."
Perhaps you should marry him then, she thought. "Well, you know how the Blaines are about that pile in Nantucket. Every summer without fail."
"You should be with them this summer."
Clara looked up sharply, struggling to keep her temper in check. "That would be rather scandalous considering we aren't married."
"Aren't yet married," Nucky corrected her. "And I should have insisted on a May wedding."
Her fingernails dug through the fabric of her skirt and pierced through to the flesh of her thigh. Attempting to keep her voice even just turned it ice-cold. "You agreed I could have one last summer on the Boardwalk. Besides, I've only known Darcy since December! And do you really wish to discuss our agreement?"
"Whatever has happened this year, Clara, remember we struck a deal, so don't get too many ideas. You bring me the gossip from the women's quarters and act as hostess, and you can push back the wedding, although I don't see why you want to. Darcy has said he'll allow you to write since it apparently means so much to you."
Unfortunately, her face had a terrible habit of flaming red when she was perturbed, and her father's words were making her quite a bit more than perturbed. They had a deal, did they? As far as she was concerned her father had already broached the terms of the deal.
Suddenly the heat of the car, even with the windows open, felt oppressive. What was a daughter but a bargaining chip? She was the only one who considered it a shame that the thought of waking up every morning to Darcy Blaine made her feel violently ill. Her eyes looked down at the navy voile of her sleeves. Darcy had been in Nantucket long enough that the bruise had faded.
Not that he had ever hit her. No, if he had hit her she could have run crying to her father. Darcy's cruelty was casual and so subtle not even Clara was sure if it was purposeful. It made Clara feel like she was hysterical. How could she complain that when he went to hold her hand he'd bent her finger back until she feared it would break? It was just an accident.
Almost worse was that Darcy was the most boring human being she'd ever met, and she'd been her father's de facto hostess for political gatherings since she was barely more than a child. She'd spent many a day attempting to entertain octogenarian priests and ward bosses who were more impressed with themselves than she was with them. Truly boring or insipid people made her feel like she was dying a death by a thousand cuts.
But life, and her father, had contrived to leave her without options. As her father liked to remind her, having a certain life required marrying a certain type of man. Since that was the kind of life her father wished for her, she saw no escape from a marriage to a man duller than dishwater.
At first, she'd cheered herself with the idea she could get a dog but now knew the dog would have to be Rin Tin Tin to make up for the lack of personality in the house. Especially since she felt her own personality dulling with every minute she spent with Darcy. She wondered when all that would be left of her was some rough pencil outline of the person Clara Thompson used to be? A year, two, five?
And she hadn't been aware that writing was something she needed permission to continue with. She knew her father considered it a silly little pastime. It was one of many reasons she couldn't let her father know of her plans for tomorrow.
As usual, checking in was a fuss, because the hotel was trying to make her father accept the second nicest suite instead of the very nicest. She and Eddie, whom she thought of as Nucky's general factotum, sat and smiled tight smiles at each other until blessedly everyone bowed down to her father's wishes. Like everyone, as Clara knew all too well, eventually must.
Once in her room in the suite her father had insisted upon, she removed the tissue paper from the outfit she was excited about wearing the next day before hanging it in the wardrobe. After a bath to wash away the stench of travel (no matter how luxurious the train, it was still a train in June) she slid into an evening dress that was both to demure for a woman of her years (Clara would turn twenty-two in two months) and yet showy enough that it wasn't quite in the best of taste. The important thing was that her father would absolutely love it.
"You were magnificent," Nucky said to her as they walked back to their hotel from the one where the Ohio delegation was staying.
Her neckline was quite high, but that hadn't stopped Senator Harding from staring at her cleavage all evening. That sort of coarse handsomeness combined with open libidinous made her want to slap someone. Preferably the Senator. She'd later heard Mrs. Harding tell Nucky she knew her husband would die if he became president.
Goodness, Clara thought, if she was married to that oaf and had that premonition she'd campaign at every backwater from one Portland to the other Portland. She cheered herself with the idea that one day she'd have a similar premonition about Darcy.
"Alice Roosevelt herself couldn't have done better," her father said when they walked into the suite.
"Isn't it lucky you found me my very own Nick Longworth?" Clara said by way of response and quickly shut the bedroom door behind her.
Clara drew a deep breath. She could not allow her father to see through her. Somehow he thought he could banish Jimmy from Atlantic City and she'd just accept she-and more importantly, Angela and Tommy-would never see him again. The long days of the war, the horrible days spent at Walter Reed, they all came back as she yanked her dress over her head with such force she tore a hook loose.
Her father thought the War had been a joke, a childish rebellion. She could still feel the broken bits the War left inside of her; she couldn't imagine how jagged Jimmy's interior life felt. And then, Jimmy was home, she was home, and she thought they could settle into some young adult version of their previous lives. Instead, Prohibition and Darcy showed up on the eighth floor of the Atlantic City Ritz-Carlton at roughly the same time and, in moments when she was being honest with herself, Clara knew she found them equally poisonous.
June 9th, 1920
It was almost unbearably hot. He knew he must get used to it. Summers spent under the cool Plover sky were just one more thing lost along with one half of his face.
He sat at Jimmy's desk, in a room decorated by a girl from Wisconsin who had lost half her face and blown the rest of her head off. Richard admired her bravery.
Sliding the mask off was the sweetest form of release most days granted him. The scar tissue couldn't sweat, but the rest of his face still could and muggy days like this one made him feel like a wet penny was adhering to the remains of his face.
It was odd to be alone in a room in a whorehouse. It was odd to be in a whorehouse. Odder still that Odette was just down the hall, now with another man. She smiled at him whenever she saw him now. The jobs he did for Jimmy, he had money in his pocket now. He could pay her.
The idea of negotiating such a thing was almost as horrifying as the idea of never touching her again. Of never touching anyone again. From his bag, the one he kept with him always, he pulled a battered Bible. The pages were covered with pictures pasted together to create...
A key rattled in the lock. Before he could grab for his mask the door opened and slammed shut as a young woman in a blue suit and a slightly askew hat ran into the room. She stood against the door.
"You aren't Jimmy," she finally gasped out.
He slammed the book shut as he reached for the mask, turning so she couldn't see him slide the mask back on.
The girl still stood with her hand on the doorknob like she couldn't quite decide if she should stay or go, breathing so rapidly he could hear it. In her other hand were a magazine and a small bag. Whomever she was, he knew he was terrifying her.
"I'm so, so sorry. I'm Jimmy's...oh god, I don't know what I am, foster-sister is closest, you'd think after all this time we'd have a way to describe each other, and I got a key... well, I bribed the man manning the back door, you see, but he must have told me the wrong room. I didn't mean to barge into your room and frighten you."
"This is. Jimmy's. Room. He's. Hrm. Out. He'll be. Back." He heard the click after most of the words and felt his right cheek twitch. If she didn't leave soon he'd have to wipe his mouth in front of her.
He heard the knob. She was leaving. His own breath came fast. He heard the click of heels against the wood and realized she was standing in front of him with her hand out. He hesitated before taking it.
"I'm Clara Thompson. I'm guessing you are a friend of Jimmy's?"
"Yes. I'm. Richard Harrow." She hadn't moved her hand. It lay in his soft and warm. He hadn't held Odette's hand, he realized. He'd been...He should not think of that right now. Panic ate at him. He didn't necessarily want to let go of her hand, but should he? After all, certainly she meant to shake his hand not hold it.
"Mr. Harrow, may I ask a huge favor?" She looked around, flushed. "So I spend a lot of time pretending to be plucky and independent and not scared of anything. But I've never been in a, well, whorehouse before and the men in the hallway scared me."
"This is. My first. As well." She laughed at his answer. He tried to look up at her, but then looked away, blushing, realizing what he had just said. "Did they. Mm. Are you all right?"
She nodded, but her fingers tensed. "Just not as brave or adventurous as I thought I was. Do you mind if I wait with you for Jimmy? I really need to talk to him, but I don't want to have to leave and come back."
"Yes. Don't go. Downstairs." He took a breath and let go of her hand before standing up to offer her the desk chair.
"It's okay, I'll sit on the bed." She was looking at Pearle's decorations with a slightly puzzled expression on her face before she sat down.
Richard was incredibly uncomfortable. It had been a long time since he was alone in a room with a girl, well, a girl like this at least. She looked so wholesome, like a drawing in a magazine advertisement, except she was sitting on a bed in a whorehouse and talking to him like a normal person. He realized she had a diamond ring on her left hand, quite a large one, which he noticed because he couldn't bring himself to look her in the face. Someone wealthy with a whole face put it there, he was sure.
"You brought. Jimmy. A magazine?"
"Sort of," Clara answered with a half-smile. She cleared her throat. "Mr. Harrow, now that I've interrupted you when clearly you weren't expecting company and I'm imposing on you when you'd probably prefer to be left alone, I'm going to declare we are friends because I have good news and I need a friend. It's one reason I came looking for Jimmy." She kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet under her, smiling at him like she already knew the answer to a question she hadn't yet posted. "Is that okay?"
It had been so long since he had a friend, but Jimmy seemed to bring more and more friends to his life. He kept waiting for her to act repulsed, or stop looking directly at him. He almost wished she would. She would have liked him before, he thought, when he was whole.
He nodded, as much to himself as to her. "All right. Friends."
"I'm a writer. Well, I'm trying. Until now, I've only had pieces published in little magazines and papers I'm not sure anyone actually reads. This morning, though, I met with a Chicago publisher and got a great assignment. And when I was at the newsstand, I was able to buy a real magazine with one of my pieces in it! It's my first important piece."
She handed him the magazine. The cover had a drawing of a little girl in a pink dress playing at the edge of the ocean.
"Are your stories. Fiction?"
"No. One day, I hope."
"Real. Is. Better."
Neither heard the doorknob begin to turn.
"Rich, let's...What the actual fuck?"
Clara lept from the bed and kicked her shoes out of her path. Richard winced when he saw how close she came to brushing against his case. The case with the other man's mask. He fought the urge to snatch the case up.
"How nice to see you! Enjoying Chicago? Are you eating well?"
Richard looked between Jimmy and Clara, confused as to how fast her demeanor, along with her tone, changed so quickly.
"Clara, what the hell?" Jimmy stepped forward, obviously meaning to hug her.
Clara's hands pressed against Jimmy's blue suit. "Not so fast, mister. What the hell is wrong with you? You disappeared again?"
Richard tried to draw back closer to the desk, his hands wringing against each other. He desperately wished he was somewhere else and cast a nervous glance at the book on the desk. Either Clara or Jimmy could notice it at any moment.
"Hey! Watch the suit, god damn it. Can we start with how the hell you got here?" Jimmy asked.
"Broadway Limited," Clara answered drily.
Jimmy rolled his eyes, pulled a pack from his hip pocket, and lit a cigarette. "See now, Princess, I had to sit up on the milk train."
Clara snatched the cigarette from his fingers and drew a long puff. "Poor you. I tracked you down because Angela and your son haven't heard from you and are broke. Father is not feeling particularly generous, and I don't make enough money to keep them going. When I went to check on them before I left, Angela didn't even have any eggs for Tommy's breakfast. But, you know, what a lovely new suit you have on."
Jimmy closed his eyes. "I write every week. I even write to you. And I send them money, I swear."
"Oh, even to me! Well, then you need to take it up with Postal Delivery. Or, here's an idea, call them! Perhaps you've heard of the telephone?"
They stared at each other. They had the same angry expression, Richard realized, and between the fact they were both wearing blue suits and had fair hair, they actually looked as much like siblings as he and Emma did.
Clara gave up first and lightly punched Jimmy's arm. "I miss you, you idiot. Tommy misses you. Angela misses you! And Gillian is driving her absolutely mad. But Gillian misses you, too. We just got you back, and now you are gone again."
"It's so great here, Clara. I'm doing really well. Nobody..."
"You've escaped being Prince of the Boardwalk? How lovely to have agency," she said in a voice that sounded both happy for him and full of barbed wire.
Jimmy turned to look back at Richard, who stared at the floor considering if it were possible to climb through it. "Jesus. Richard, was she like this with you?"
Before he could answer Clara turned back to look at him and smiled. "No, she was. Hrm. Mmm. Friendly."
"Thank you. Mr. Harrow is a very kind man who took me in while I waited for you."
Jimmy's tongue traveled across his lower teeth before he responded. "It's a new experience for Clara to be described as friendly, she's not used to it. Look, I've gotta get back downstairs because I just heard Nuck is on his way here. I'm guessing he doesn't know about your little trip to the South Side?"
Suddenly the pieces fell into place. Jimmy had told him over a bourbon one night. "There's a man, back where I came from, Nucky Thompson. Runs things. Like Torrio. Looked after me while I was coming along. Not to pleased with me now." Another time he'd talked about the girl he grew up with.
The closest thing Jimmy had to a sister was the daughter of the man who ran Atlantic City. T
Clara looked aghast at Jimmy's words. "Goodness, no."
Jimmy laughed before he handed her the contents of his wallet, hugging her goodbye while the banknotes were still clutched in her hand. "Give that to Ang. I'll figure a way to get you out of that mausoleum Nuck has you staying in and the three of us will go do something tomorrow night. Rich, get her out of here." With that, he was gone.
"I will. Walk You. To your hotel." Richard volunteered from where he was still half trying to hide behind the desk.
Clara sighed. "I wish I didn't need to ask you to do that, but if you'd just get me away from here I would be forever in your debt. I didn't want to tell Jimmy that I was frightened, because..."
"Because. You're plucky. And adventuresome."
She was looking down as she put Jimmy's money in her bag, but looked up and smiled at him. She didn't look away and took him a minute to realize she was staring directly into his face. He was torn between desperately wanting to look away, and enjoying the feeling of someone looking at him without flinching.
"Yes. I don't want my secret out! Also, I'm fascinated! Left to my own devices I'd probably end up trying to interview the people who work here. I feel like that would be a poor decision on many levels."
He tried not to think about her being fascinated, what it would be like if she and Odette met each other. Or what Mr. Torrio would do if he found out Nucky Thompson's daughter was roaming the halls of the Four Deuces.
Once out of the house via the back alley, they continued walking towards the Blackstone.
"You are. Engaged?" he finally asked.
Clara looked down at the ring that for a moment she'd forgotten she was wearing. It was beautiful, better sized to her father's hand than to her own (hardly surprising since she had a feeling her father had bought and paid for it, much like he had bought and paid for Darcy), and a reminder she was being forced into a life she didn't actually want.
"I try not to think about it," she answered quietly.
He blinked, uncertain of how to respond. It was as if a cloud had fallen over her face.
She shrugged, choosing to watch their feet as they walked down the sidewalk. Richard's shoes were obviously not new, but they were immaculate. Actually, he was immaculate. Even the mask was square on his face, lined up to meet his mustache. It touched her, and she tried to blink away the feeling. "His family will be a boon to my father, and actual cash will be a boon to them. It's a good match. Both families are very excited."
"He doesn't. Make you. Happy?"
"Do you know you are the first person to ask me that?" She gave him a half-smile. "It's not particularly important, I suppose. I don't even think I like him."
He walked silently next to her.
"You were in the war?" Clara finally asked, needing to break the silence. It was an unusual instinct for her since she spent most of her life wishing the majority of the people she knew would stop talking.
"How. Did you. Know?"
Why was she incapable of thinking before she spoke today, Clara wondered. He had been so nice to her when she had disturbed him, and she'd repeatedly said the wrong thing. Then she saw the good side of his mouth was turned up.
Okay. She could play it off. "Well, see, I worked for the War Department so I learned how to notice little signs. Like when I came into your room." He looked up and she cursed herself again for misspeaking, knowing he thought she meant seeing his scars. "I could see the cord for your identificaiton tags."
He nodded. For a moment, he thought she was speaking about his wounds. She had seen them. "You were. A Nurse?"
Clara laughed. "No. My best friend was, though."
What was it she did, he wondered. Before he could ask they were standing in front of the Blackstone Hotel.
"It was so kind of you to walk me back," Clara said. "I'm looking forward to tomorrow night, even if I have no idea how I'll get away."
"It was. Nice. To meet. You."
When the doorman opened the door for her, she couldn't stop herself from turning and waving.
It felt like a half-forgotten reflex, waving at someone as his hand raised when she turned before disappearing behind the heavy metal and wood doors. Back in Jimmy's room, he picked up the Ladies Home Journal Clara had left on the bed. He flipped through the articles until he found her name. She'd written about the best books for young women. He looked at the pictures throughout the magazine, his mind automatically seeing the ones he'd like to put in his book, and saw what he expected to find there. Shiny-haired girls in pretty dresses with warm smiles are supposed to marry handsome men who make them happy.
Clara didn't bother with her pajamas, after she was finally able to slip into the bath after another evening of pretending she cared about what Harry Daugherty had to say ended, slipping into her kimono before reaching for the hotel stationary.
Dearest Rose,
So much has happened in my one day in Chicago! I received more assignments and saw my name in print for the first time. I found Jimmy. That was an adventure. I met a friend of his, Richard Harrow. He was also in the...
A very soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Eddie.
"Miss, your father requires you."
Clara sighed and pulled her pajamas on before tying her kimono back into place. Her father stood over the bar. It was the way he was standing that made her breath catch.
"Eli has been shot. Pack your things. We will be on the first train out."
Uncle Eli, shot. Clara's hands twisted into her robe as she tried to make her mouth form words. "The children, Aunt June? Is he..."
"Fine. And Clara, we will be escorting another young woman home. I expect you to be helpful. Now I must attend to some business."
There were a million questions she needed answered, but her father swept past her while she still fought for air.
Once more at the fucking Four Deuces. Torrio ran a good establishment, as far as cathouses went, but he had no desire to visit it multiple times in one day. But this is where James was, and as much as it annoyed him to admit it, he needed James back.
And he needed Clara off the Boardwalk. He sighed in frustration. He never should have given in to her pleas to put off the wedding, to have one last summer in Atlantic City. Then she'd off in Nantucket and out of the reach of the d'Alessio brothers. Of Arnold Rothstein.
James's attitude he expected. What he hadn't expected was for James to have managed to befriend a sideshow freak so far from the Boardwalk.
