"This is the song I've been waiting for," she said as she took his hand and led him to the dance floor. He was a bundle of nerves, aware of the mocking eyes falling upon them, and felt a pang of pity for the poor, lovely girl he had somehow tricked into accompanying him to this farce. All around them, lovestruck couples waltzed in each other's arms, staring adoringly into each other's eyes. He twisted his fingers around his thumbs and wished he had never thought to come.
She knocked him from his nervous reverie by leaning in close and muttering, "I don't know what I'm doing." Suddenly he was back in Plover, waltzing around the barn with Emma, all smiles and graceful limbs. It was one of those memories he cherished, but tried desperately to push from his consciousness whenever it recurred. Now, surrounded by music and rhythm and with Julia standing ever so close, he fought back his reservations and forced himself to do what he knew he must.
"Put your hand. On my shoulder," he growled softly. She dutifully placed a small hand on his shoulder; his settled on her waist. He lifted her right hand and began counting the rhythm as he led her feet with his own. "One, two, three; one, two, three-don't look down," he warned, and she turned her beautiful face up and locked her sea-blue eyes with his.
Soon, the count was forgotten as he was consumed by the simple joy of the dance and of her smiling face gazing up at him in surprise. "You never told me you were good at this," she said.
"Thank you." He blushed. "This is the only step I know."
His joke made her laugh, a sound that threw his mind into a frenzy of complicated emotions, all generally focused around his utter shock that any of this was actually real. Before he knew it, he had lost himself completely in the whirl of their movements. He never would have guessed, from how quickly she caught on to his wordless instruction, that she was a novice. Then again, he never would have guessed from their first meeting- "Don't take any wooden nickels," she had said-that he could ever hope to be here with her, yet here she was, moving gracefully in his arms.
"What do we do for a finish?"
A vision of Emma twirling before him passed behind his eyes. "Put your arm up," he instructed. She hesitated. "Trust me," he urged. It was at once a simple request and a plea for the unforeseen road ahead.
She lifted her arm, and he twirled her in place before lowering her into a graceful dip. She clung to his shoulder, afraid to fall, but he would never have dropped her.
He hadn't realized that again all eyes were on him, but suddenly the room erupted in applause. Richard's cheek burned from embarrassment, and he tugged on Julia's hand to lead her from the dance floor.
"Hold on," she said, pulling him back to her. "Let's give them something to think about."
A sudden lurch of the train startled Richard from his tepid slumber. The moon was high in the sky, basking the surrounding fields in a milky, ghostly glow. He checked his watch, figuring they must be somewhere in Ohio, maybe crossing into Indiana depending on how long he had slept. Atlantic City suddenly seemed a world away from the peaceful idyll of the American plains. He had hesitated when Nucky had mentioned a job in Chicago, but now said a silent prayer, glad for the chance to escape for a while.
He hadn't left his vigil over the Sagorsky house willingly, but he supposed his absence was for the best. Besides, he had been standing guard nightly for nearly a month without incident. He realized, as the initial fearful afterglow of the Artemis Club massacre had dissipated into whispered rumors, that those foolish enough to cross him didn't know his name, and those who did wouldn't dare to try.
So he had boarded the train, on Nucky's orders, after taking one last look at the familiar house for God knew how long, and found himself careening towards the setting sun and a decidedly uncertain future.
In a shabby tenement hall on the South Side, Luciana Morici held her breath in a last-ditch effort to stifle her mounting anxiety.
She shouldn't have been surprised to see Capone waltz into the Garden of Eden that night, but nevertheless his appearance had taken her off guard. He had walked straight to her, ignoring the frivolous whispers of her excited fellow dancers, and held a dime to her. She had steeled herself, the consummate professional, and led him to the dancefloor.
Now that the music had died and she was free to return to the comfort of her tiny bed, she let the stress of the night's events overtake her, but only for a moment. She knew better than to cry over Capone's threats-he was moving up in the pecking order, but wasn't yet a king like Torrio-but he had alarmed her nonetheless. How had he known that she had begun working for O'Banion? No one she knew was aware of her activities on the North Side; up there she was Lucy Morris, feigning Irish origins that belied her dark features. Perhaps it had been naive of her to think it wouldn't have caught up with her, but taxi dancing alone couldn't possibly have settled her debts. How did Capone expect to be repaid on a dime a dance?
She sat up in bed, pulling her thick chestnut hair over her shoulder. As she weaved it into a loose braid, she thought about Nick, the great love of her life, and the great tragedy. Try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to curse his name. He deserved her scorn, true, but she loved him in spite of herself, and he needed her so. Her stomach lurched at the thought of him, alone and at the mercy of Capone's muscle, and remembered why she had taken such a risk in the first place.
She reached for the drawer of her nightstand and retrieved a bible from its depths. She lifted the cover and turned to the seventh book of the old testament—Judges—to reveal a hollowed section containing a bundle wrapped in brown paper. She pulled the bundle from the book and unwrapped it with care. Inside was a thick stack of bills, and she counted each in turn, then counted again. At least half would be sent to her family in Palermo; the rest would go to Capone. It still wouldn't be enough, but it was better than nothing.
She rewrapped the bundle with care and nestled it back into its hiding place, then rose from the bed to the dusty mirror in the corner. In the hazy darkness of just before dawn, she straightened her posture and studied her reflection in the mirror. Her nightgown hid a thin body that yearned be voluptuous, and would have been had she not spent years sacrificing sustenance in favor of shelter and safety. She shook her hair loose, letting the wavy ringlets cascade over her shoulders. She had never thought herself to be a great beauty: her limbs were slim and her stomach a tad bloated from malnourishment, but her breasts were far from modest and her face was pretty enough. Besides, Nick had always appreciated her.
With a sigh, she fell back onto the bed, Nick's face swimming into her mind. He was so handsome, with his sandy blonde hair and straight Roman nose. She always thought they would have made some beautiful children, and had thoroughly enjoyed the sport of trying.
Imagining his strong hands exploring her trembling body, she laid down again, her hand disappearing beneath her skirt.
The Four Deuces looked much as Richard remembered it, though many of the faces had changed over the course of the last few years. As he neared the bar, he glanced inconspicuously around the room for Odette, wondering with melancholy whether she had given him another thought since that night and hoping sincerely that she had.
"Frankenstein! Ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" Capone rose from his barstool to greet him. "Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?"
"No. Thank you."
"Barkeep! A whiskey for my friend here."
Richard took a seat at the familiar bar, ignoring the amber-filled glass placed before him. The squat Italian man tossed back his own drink and slammed the glass on the bar for a refill. "So," he said as he smacked his lips, "Did our mutual friend, Mr. Thompson, fill you in on why I am in need of your services here in my beautiful city?"
Richard shook his head.
"In that case, I'll get right to the point. A man named Niccolo Caro owes me a great deal of money."
"You need me. To kill him?"
Capone laughed. "Look at this guy!" he exclaimed to the men around him. "Relax, soldier. Put the gun back in your pants. I got a plan for ol' Nick. I may kill him eventually, but for he's more valuable alive."
"Then what do. You want from me?"
Capone smiled slyly and downed his drink before sliding from the stool. Richard took his cue and stood. "Listen, you got plans tonight?" Capone laughed. "What am I saying? Of course you don't got plans." He swung an arm around Richard's shoulder, an enviable feat given their difference in height. "Tell you what: meet me at the Garden of Eden at 10."
Richard eyed him suspiciously.
"Relax, pretty boy. I just wanna show you what Chicago is made of."
That's what Richard was afraid of.
The dancehall buzzed to life as the gentleman began streaming in. The girls were ready, clad in flapper finery and dancing shoes, and the walls were dotted with girls pouting and preening in hopes of snagging a customer. Luciana, as always, was one of the first to be offered a hand. As they foxtrotted across the floor, she kept her eye trained suspiciously on the entrance. Capone had warned her he'd be back and, though she doubted she would see him again so soon, she couldn't shake the anticipation building within her. She almost wanted him to show up tonight, to add credence to her fears.
Several dances later, she finally began to relax. How silly she had been to think he'd return so soon! She relaxed her shoulders and flashed her current partner a dazzling smile, which easily secured her another dance.
As the next jazzy number began, the doors to the club swung open and Capone sauntered in, his presence towering over the crowd in spite of his small stature and his smirk visible from across the room. He was flanked by his usual thugs, save for the stranger beside him. The man was turned towards the young gangster, muttering something gravely, throwing the right side of his face into profile. Luciana felt the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach; the stranger was disarmingly handsome, with his neat mustache and wide eyes sparkling behind thin wire glasses. As he and Capone walked toward her, she found, for the first time in ages, that Nick had been pushed from her mind.
And then he turned to face her, and she really couldn't help but stare.
The left half of his face was covered by what appeared to be some sort of mask, rendered after his face but without the alluring expressiveness of his actual features. Its hollow expression unnerved her more than the two thick scars that snaked out from the its edges, one above his eyebrow and another drifting across his cheek and up to his ear. They neared her spot on the dance floor, and she couldn't take her eyes off of him and the unsettling way in which one eye darted about the room, but the other stayed frozen in place.
She shook her head and looked determinedly at her partner, raising her arm defiantly to block the stranger from her line of sight. Too late; Capone was at her side, tapping her partner on the shoulder.
"I need to borrow this young lady."
"Fuck off," her partner responded. "I paid for a dance—"
The stranger grabbed his collar and yanked her partner away as if he were little more than a piece of lint on his jacket. "Come with me, dollface," Capone said with a smile. He turned to his thugs and whispered something, then led Luciana and the stranger off of the dance floor and through a side door into the dressing room.
A gaggle of chatting girls shrieked when they entered. "Get lost," Capone said. They obediently fluttered from the room.
He took a seat and gestured for his companions to do the same. Her heart pounding in her throat, Luciana lowered herself slowly into an empty chair. She watched from the corner of her eye as the stranger followed suit, folding his long limbs as if he were Baum's Tin Woodsman, in desperate need of oil.
With everyone seated, Capone cleared his throat. "Let me introduce you two. Ms. Morici, Mr. Harrow. Mr. Harrow, Ms. Morici."
A strange sort of clicking sound escaped Mr. Harrow's throat as he turned to her and said, "Nice. To meet you." It was more akin to a growl than anything else, a rough, monotone grumble. It was then that she noticed another thick scar slashed across his neck, yet another detail on which she must work hard not to focus. She forced her gaze towards his eye and offered a cautious hand.
"Good. Now that we're all acquainted, let's talk about why we're here, shall we? Ms. Morici here owes me a large sum of money."
Luciana's chest burned with resentment, and she longed to correct the little man before her—that it was Nick who owed him money, not her—but she knew better than to open her mouth, and her poker face remained.
Capone continued. "It's recently come to my attention that our little friend here has been working for that mick bastard, O'Banion, on the side. That don't sit well with me. I like to think I'm a fair man, but I can't help feeling like she's giving me the run-around."
"Get to. The point." Luciana was surprised and impressed; she had never heard the Prince of the South Side addressed with such impropriety.
"You're gonna be her babysitter. Stay with her night and day, make sure she stays away from the North Side. Keep her in line. You know the drill."
Apparently, she couldn't contain the look of horror that splashed across her face. Mr. Harrow quickly shifted his gaze to his frenetic hands.
Capone leaned forward and clapped them both on the shoulder. "Come on, it'll be fun! You two'll be lovebirds in no time." He guffawed then, his jaw swung wide in a gesture far more menacing than a laugh ought to have been. "Now," he said, standing, "I need a drink. You two take a moment to get to know each other."
He left them sitting there, dumbstruck and avoiding each other's eyes. Finally, Luciana rose to her feet. "Well," she said with a sigh, "we might as well go dance."
Imagine her surprise, as she led him unwillingly to the floor during a dreamy waltz, when he revealed himself to be an elegant dancer. "You've done this before," she whispered.
"You sound. Surprised."
She blushed, afraid that he had taken offence to her comment. "I just meant," she stammered, "you're a wonderful dancer. Has anyone told you that before?"
The right half of his face flushed; the effect was startlingly charming. She thought she saw a flicker of a smile tug the corner of his mouth, but he didn't say a word. He simply led her around the floor until she began to lose herself in the delight of dancing with a partner who knew how to show her off. He twirled her and dipped her and let her move as free as a feather dancing on the breeze. She had never felt so alive.
When the song ended, they dutifully applauded. Mr. Harrow turned to exit the floor. "Oh no you don't," she scolded, grabbing his hand and pulling him back to her. "You're supposed to look after me, remember?"
"I could. Get you a drink."
"I'd rather have another dance."
The next song was an upbeat number, and Mr. Harrow stood frozen before her. "I don't know. How to dance. To this."
Luciana smiled, amused by his hesitation. "It's all right, then. We can get a drink."
She led him to the bustling bar and gestured for two whiskeys. The bartender dutifully poured, and Luciana clinked Mr. Harrow's glass before tossing back its contents. When she glanced at him again, she noticed that he hadn't touched his, but chose not to press the issue.
"Do you. Come here often. Ms. Morici?"
Was that supposed to be flirtatious? Luciana giggled. "Call me Lucia. And, in answer to your question," she yelled as the music swelled, "I work here." A look of confusion crossed his face. "I get paid per dance. I'm a taxi dancer."
Still no sign comprehension. "They don't have taxi dancers where you come from? Where do you come from, anyway? I feel like I would've seen you around if you lived here."
"I live in. Atlantic City."
"Never been, but I've heard it's lovely."
The music changed to another up-tempo romp. She looked up at him hopefully, but he looked at his hands.
A man approached with a ticket and offered Luciana his hand. She shrugged at Mr. Harrow, hoping he wouldn't take this as a slight. As she let the man lead her back to the dance floor, she glanced back at the sad, strange Mr. Harrow, leaning sheepishly against the bar. She still wasn't sure what to make of him; he was clearly Capone's muscle, but there was something about him that intrigued her. Though the shock of his mask had long since left her, she just couldn't take her eyes off of him.
Her job required her to stay at the dancehall well into the night. Afraid of the fast songs, Richard left her to accept patrons while he hung back at the bar, still clutching his full glass of whiskey and keeping his good eye trained on her as per Capone's instructions. A part of him was offended that such a skillful soldier as himself was being relegated to something akin to a nursemaid, but he couldn't pretend that it hadn't felt good to dance with a willing partner once again (even if she was just doing her job).
With the last patron ushered from the building, Luciana returned to him again. "So," she said, feigning energy though her breathlessness betrayed her, "my place or yours?"
Fearing the impropriety of retiring to a young girl's room, Richard directed the driver to his hotel. Nucky had been kind enough to set him up with decent accommodations—nothing too lavish, but a far cry from the cramped boarding house quarters that he currently called home. Richard would never have thought to seek refuge in a place as fancy as the Ritz, and was glad he hadn't needed to. Now, however, with a beautiful brunette on his arm, a part of him wished he had.
They snaked through the streets of the Windy City by night. Lucia cranked the window down and rested her chin on her arm on the doorframe. Stray curls of her hair wafted behind her, and Richard couldn't be sure, but somehow knew all the same, that her smile looked even lovelier basked in the glittering lights of the big city.
What was it about this girl? He remembered the way she had stared at him as he'd first approached her on the dance floor. Her eyes reflected at once horror and curiosity, two reactions to which he was more than accustomed, but there was something else deep within that he couldn't put his finger on. All he knew was how wonderful it had felt to be looked at that way.
The way Julia looked at him.
But he knew better than to fall for the first pretty face that didn't recoil in fear at the sight of him, didn't he? He thought of the brief list of loves in his life, or whatever love was to a harrowed soldier incapable of reciprocation. Jenny Hastings had amused him, but though her betrayal had stung he had not mourned the loss significantly. Odette was the girl of his fantasies, paid to give him the moon but not to keep it there. Angela Darmody had been a saint to him, an ally and confidant, but his friend's love for her had kept him from feeling an attraction. Emma had been the great love of his life before the accident, but to think of her now caused nothing but pain. It was Julia who had reignited the kindling within his heart, and he had been forced to smother the growing flames for the sake of her safety and Tommy's. He was not about to repeat the mistake of believing that love was an emotional that he could afford to entertain.
In front of the hotel, Richard helped his charge from the car and led her to his room, ignoring the stares of the few guests and attendants milling about at this ungodly hour as he focused instead on the training he had received from Julia at the American Legion dance—thanks to her, he would never again fail to offer his arm to a woman. The took the elevator to his floor, and his restless hands nearly fumbled the key at the door, but he quickly let them both in without incident. She immediately set to turning on every lamp in the room as he softly shut the door.
She hummed loudly, arms akimbo, and surveyed their surroundings. "Big bed," she said, shooting him a challenging look.
"You can. Have it." It would have been wonderful to sleep on such a large, pillowy mattress, but a gentleman must always put a lady's needs first.
"Nonsense," she said as she removed her coat. Richard hurried behind her to help. She then plucked each finger of her gloves in turn, first the right hand and then the left. "We'll share the bed. I couldn't very well have you sleeping on the floor."
"I. Don't mind." Did she really expect him to sleep beside her?
"Well I do. As long as we're stuck together, we might as well make the best of it. Besides, if I know Al at all, he half did this just to get under our skins, and I for one won't let him. Help me with this?" She turned her back to him, and he set to work on the long strand of buttons that help up her dress while working hard to ignore the luminous skin beneath; he noticed a thin layer of goosebumps forming where his hand brushed her shoulder.
Richard moved to the closet to hang his coat and shirt as Lucia perched on the bed, removing her stockings. He could see her in the mirror, the curve of her calves entrancing him as she peeled the silk from them. He felt the stirring deep inside and forced himself to look away.
"So how long have you worked for Capone?" She was under the blanket now, brushing her hair absentmindedly with her fingers.
"I don't. Work for Capone."
"Really? He sure treats you like you do." He noticed the faintest trace of an accent—Italian, if her name were any indication. It was less in the way she pronounced words and more in the rhythm of how she spoke. An unconscious elegance, to be sure; the effect was enchanting.
"I work. For Nucky Thompson."
"Nucky Thompson?" She scrunched her face up in thought. "Sounds familiar. What'd he do, loan you out?" She stretched and sank further into the bed. "I bet you never expected to come all the way out here just for this."
Richard smiled. No, he hadn't expected this, but it was not unwelcome, either. He turned off all but the lamps flanking the bed before climbing in beside her, giving her a wide berth. It was like climbing into a cloud, but he couldn't let his guard down.
Neither spoke, nor did they look at each other. Richard hummed finally, reaching for his lamp. "Goodnight."
He turned away from her, his right cheek against the pillow, and the mask cut into his skin uncomfortably. Why hadn't she turned out her light? His heart rate began to rise, his mind a tempus of competing emotions-fear that she would run screaming if he dared remove his mask, longing for a woman's touch after so long, guilt that his presence here was an affront to his beloved Julia.
"I'm not a whore, you know."
The statement took him by surprise. He turned to lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. "I. Didn't—"
"I just don't want you to get any funny ideas. I don't know what Capone told you."
"He didn't. Tell me anything." He could feel her eyes on him, though he refused to look at her. Somehow, her stares didn't fill him with unease as stares were wont to do.
After what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, she turned away from him and switched off the lamp.
The stirring in his trousers returned. It would be a very long night.