It was a uniform, just like any other, the suit on the bed. Nicky stood in his bare feet and shorts, checking it over. Ink-blue with white stripes, red satin tie, shirtfront brushed until it gleamed, pocketwatch polished smooth as nickel-plated glass. He put it all on carefully, down to his shined shoes.
The rented room was bare, but he hadn't been in Chicago long, and he didn't need all that much. A young girl, her brown hair tight waves framing her heart-shaped face, pink-cheeked above her mild smile, gazed away from her silver frame on the battered dresser. From the angle, she looked like she was focused somewhere in the distance, and Nicky couldn't blame her. He checked for his small notebook, notations for the bets on tonight's game inside, went through his money clip, then locked the door behind him.
He hadn't been able to trust that his bona fides had been established, not until tonight. Oh, of course they'd had him along on last week's raid; he was the new kid, and he made the perfect fall guy. They had even taken to calling him pretty-boy, until he had threatened to punch out the lights of the next guy who tried it—and they had seen him work, knew what he could do. If he wasn't careful, he thought his next nickname might be a little less complimentary. Two-fist, maybe. Hothead. Firestarter. And that wouldn't be all bad.
The schedule wasn't so bad, either. His crew wasn't up with the dawn. They started festivities at a more leisurely hour, but Nicky didn't expect to be in until the sky was beginning to lighten, either. They had collected some protection money, run upstate to collect some product from just over the border, and tonight they were going to unwind and see Benny's friend at a speakeasy.
And the kicker of it all—in Chi-town, the speakeasies weren't buried down miles of twisting alley, behind false fronts and forbidding gatekeepers. Nicky found the address with no problem, and while his heart might have beat just a hair faster under the doorman's scrutinizing glare, apparently he passed the test. Invoking Gianelli didn't hurt, either.
Nicky made his way inside, picking up his fedora to reposition it on his head at a jauntier angle. The speakeasy's interior was fogged by cigarette smoke, but all the flesh on display seemed to gleam gold and bronze in the low lights; the women were dressed in sequins or satin or silk, the light gleaming on their teeth or on the paste or genuine stones lodged in the lobes of ears, circling their wrists or necks or fingers. Almost everyone had a cigarette. Nicky pulled out his cigarette case and idly tapped one on the meat of his thumb before sliding onto a barstool, scanning the place once he ordered his drink. The gold light made everyone both younger and older, bright but infinitely weary; the laughter seemed to be more relieved than jovial.
No radio was playing behind the bar. Nicky guessed the speakeasy would just be their first stop of the night.
The drink, when it finally made its way to him, was good. The first wave burned down his throat. A quartet played quietly on stage and the music wove into the smoke, the low hum of conversation. Nicky inclined his head as he caught sight of another of Benny's crew, and the other guy nodded too. His arm was around a statuesque girl with flame-red hair and thin lips, her eyes gleaming.
Well. That taste wasn't quite so bitter as the amber in his glass, but it was easily dismissed. He needed to make sure Benny was good with him, and he didn't have time for that kind of distraction.
Nicky checked his pocketwatch, and was just considering popping down to the next place to see if they kept a working radio behind the bar when the quartet finished on one long sultry note, to a smattering of indifferent applause. The red-velvet curtain behind them was perfectly still, and as they ducked behind it he considered dim hallways and smuggled merchandise and whispers in the darkness.
The lights around the stage dimmed. An eager-looking kid in shirtsleeves came over to check the microphone, and Nicky paused with the sole of one foot balanced, ready to push off.
Then Benny arrived, and Nicky's face went still and wary as he studied the three men with Benny. One was a blond with wire-rimmed glasses and a striped tie; he had his hands in his pants pockets, the set of his mouth halfway to a sneer. Nicky hadn't seen any of the three before, but striped-tie felt a little more dangerous than the usual unknown quantity. The other two were taller; they wore humorless faces, and from the way their jackets hung he could tell they were packing, and that was parsed easily enough. He thought of his own gun, and his fingers twitched once, briefly. Then Benny gave him a grin and Nicky returned it with a small smile of acknowledgement. No good to be too eager.
Striped-tie crossed the floor easily, his gaze locked on that empty stage. Benny joined him, then beckoned to Nicky and the other member of his crew. From across the room he could hear open palms slapping against backs, hearty greeting laughter.
A hush came over the entire place when the music began; it was slow, insinuating, still and glaring as the cloud of cigarette smoke around them. It made him think of the pale thin hours before dawn, when his blood felt cool, when his nerves felt so near his own skin.
Two girls in white sequined dresses moved onto the stage, each with one shoulder bare, showing a generous amount of stockinged leg. They stayed at the edge of the spotlight, faces obscured by smoke and the limits of the darkness. Striped-tie was drumming his fingertips on the table; he made an impatient gesture after the server delivered his drink order, then grasped the glass and tossed back half neat with the faintest grimace. Nicky caught sight of a signet ring on his pinky finger, a stylized L on its face, a diamond set into the lower loop. His glasses were off, and if his direct light-eyed stare could have burned a hole through the velvet fabric, Nicky thought it would have.
His gaze wasn't on either of the backup singers—and Nicky only placed them as that when the lead singer sauntered out on stage, the light catching every curve and gather in her shining red dress. Her skin was the color of dark amber honey, and the light caught in her dark eyes, leaving slices of pale gold there.
She had an undeniable presence, and as soon as she opened her red-lipped mouth and began to sing, her voice low and sultry, Nicky could sense the sigh of pleasure even if he couldn't hear it. So striped-tie was here for her. Nicky shrugged faintly as he picked up his own drink and tossed it back. When Benny leaned forward as though to confide something about their plans for the night, striped-tie made that same impatient gesture again, flicking his fingers, his brow drawing in like Benny and his undeniable influence meant nothing while the siren was on stage.
Then the two backup singers stepped forward, and Nicky was focusing on the rest of the night, on keeping his face impassive while his mind was racing, trying to figure striped-tie out. He glanced up.
And then his lips parted a little. His heart rose, and he rose slightly from his chair, drawn only by the sudden violent buzz beneath his skin. Like everything had all been static and suddenly, quick as another heartbeat, he was finally tuned in.
She looked barely a day out of the schoolroom, the backup singer on the left. Her blonde hair was shining, her eyes sapphire-blue, her lips cherry-red. Her skin looked creamy as fresh milk, especially under the glare of the spotlight; every time her lips rounded as she formed another note, Nicky felt the entire foundation of his being quiver.
She made him think of rumpled sheets; she made him think of amber smoke rasping in his throat, against her tongue. She made him spellbound with longing, and he wanted to know how her flesh would feel under his palm, how the point of her shoulder would taste.
The guy to Nicky's left—everyone called him Flash and he distantly remembered hearing him addressed as Corcoran—elbowed him. "Best not be makin eyes at Shay's girl," Flash muttered, then tugged his earlobe. "He's got a temper where she's concerned."
With supreme effort, his neck flushing, Nicky dragged his gaze from the blonde back to striped-tie, Shay, then back again. He hadn't mistaken him; Shay's gaze was locked to the lead singer, and when Nicky glanced at her, he saw a trace of fear in her eyes. There was no way she hadn't noticed him; Benny and Shay and the gang had taken the table directly in front of the low stage. While Shay wasn't as large as his two de facto bodyguards, he was quick. Nicky had learned to size men up quickly, and Shay most likely depended on his average size to make his opponents underestimate him. Shay looked like all he had to do was crook a finger and he could bring a world of pain down on anyone who crossed him—but he also looked like he would be wearing a brass knuckle in that deep pocket, clenched tight against a sweaty palm, ready for a vicious sucker punch followed by a kick in the ribs.
Nicky blinked as he looked back to the stage, to the blonde. It was eerie, he'd been told, how he could do that; how he could fight with a man once and walk away with just minor bruises and wounds. He knew he was charmed. The thing about charms was that they always ended.
They generally ended with girls like her.
When the song was over, Shay flinched at the polite applause around them. He cast a quick glance around the room, directing his darkened gaze at anyone else who happened to be gazing in the singer's direction. Nicky, who had long cultivated the air of a man who neither gave a damn nor cared if anyone else wanted him to, closed his lips about his still-burning cigarette and clapped too—but his gaze was on the blonde.
Who was directing furtive glances at Shay.
Nicky swallowed his sigh, then exhaled twin plumes of smoke and picked a shred of tobacco leaf off his tongue, flicking it into the darkness, languorous and low-lidded. God, the way that dress clung to her breasts. When she brought out a white and black-feathered boa for the next act, Nicky swallowed hard.
It was hard to focus on anything else; he knew she wouldn't vanish like a mirage if he took his eyes off her, but the longer he stared at her, the longer he wanted to stare at her. He felt an echo of the same fascination he had felt, the first time he had ever climbed to a tall place and looked down. It wasn't nausea or any flavor of dismay; it was seeing and knowing that the sudden speed of his heart and that protracted gaze could prove his undoing, but nothing stood between him and the ground this time.
Benny had apparently resigned himself, and knew that Shay wasn't leaving until the singer's set was over. When Flash asked what the vig was on the night's match, Nicky replied easily enough. God, cherry-red lips on a blonde made him feel like a hulking hot-blooded neophyte, clumsy and earnest as a schoolboy.
He told himself that perfect innocence had to be an act—but that did nothing to temper his distraction. It only served to whet it.
During the last song of the set, Nicky had to make a conscious effort to look at his cigarette, the other backup singer, Benny and Flash, anything—but his gaze kept stealing back to her. He learned the sound of her voice; he peeled it away from the sultry lead melody, from the breathy hush of the other singer's. With any luck, they wouldn't meet with Shay again, wouldn't end up back here again, but Nicky didn't know Shay's role or why they were with him, not yet. Just that he didn't trust the man.
And that if he spent much more time in the same room with the blonde, he would do something foolish.
When he saw the hungry look on Shay's face as the singer nodded, acknowledging the smattering of applause after the set was over, Nicky wondered if he had worn a similar expression while gazing at the other singer. He hoped not. Shay looked more like a hunter gazing upon certain prey. Nicky wondered if he had any idea, or if it was a message to the woman.
The blonde, he thought, wouldn't respond well to such a direct challenge. She needed someone steady, patient—
What does it matter? Nicky stubbed out his cigarette as Benny pushed back from the table, heaving a sigh of relief. The fight would take place with or without them, but they had other things to do tonight.
Half the lead singer's back was exposed, thanks to the cut of her dress. Nicky watched the three of them leave the stage, and he saw how ramrod-straight her spine was; she didn't slump with relief like the other singer.
The blonde, though—she was still tense, too. She turned to say something to the lead singer, and her blue eyes flashed back. For a split second, Nicky could swear they had caught his.
Then she was gone.
Shay tossed an empty highball glass down onto the tabletop, next to two empties; the glasses rattled and he didn't spare them a glance. Shooting his cuffs, his gaze fixed on the velvet curtain, he began to follow the singers. Nicky was just reaching for his cigarette case when he glanced over at Benny, who shrugged.
"What's his deal, boss?"
Benny lit a new cigarette off the smoldering remains of the last and pulled the first drag into his lungs before answering, as Nicky flicked his lighter to flame. "Ain't it obvious? It'll be better next door. We can listen to the fight and figure out who's on what tomorrow."
Nicky managed a casual nod, taking his own drag. He glanced over at the bar, wondering if he should order another drink, but he had a feeling he was going to need to stay as clear as possible.
"Hey!"
The shout was muffled, distant—and no one else reacted. Benny and Flash were talking about something. The bodyguards—Nicky scanned the room for them. They were near the curtain.
The singers.
Nicky's hand was stable as a rock, and he left his cigarette in the ashtray as he walked toward the backstage area, reaching down to make sure his jacket was unbuttoned and his rod in easy reach. The bodyguards did their best to stare him down; Nicky walked past with a steely glare, his jaw set, and they let him pass.
The hallway was dim; at the end of it, Nicky saw a slice of light interrupted by a slender brown arm. The wrist of that arm was clenched in Shay's fist.
"Come on, Lola."
The door opened a little wider. Behind the girl Nicky could hear someone panting, an edge of panic in the voice. The blonde poked her head through, glaring at Shay, her blue eyes fierce.
"Leave her alone. She doesn't want you here."
"Keep your nose out of it, missy."
"Hey," Nicky called, touching the butt of his gun without taking it out. "What's going on?"
Shay kept his head turned toward the doorway for a moment, long enough to demonstrate his disregard, before casting a brief glance back over at his shoulder, toward Nicky. Even though they were being quiet, he could hear the footfalls behind him. The bodyguards. Most likely the dressing room had an emergency exit—but if it did, he thought the singers would have taken it, to avoid being caught like this.
The blonde looked up into Nicky's eyes, and he felt his heart in his throat again. "Please," she said, breathlessly, her tone entirely different when she spoke to him. Softer. "We just want to change and go home."
Nicky licked his lips, glancing over at Shay. "You heard her."
"Lola, come on." Shay's voice turned ugly. "You think you can just walk away like this?"
"Please," the lead singer said, her voice husky. Her dark eyes were gleaming. "Just let me go... just give me a minute."
"A minute," Shay said finally, after a long tense moment. The bodyguards were close enough now, and three slender shoulders wouldn't be able to hold back even one of them if they decided to break that flimsy door down. Before Shay released that slender wrist and the door slammed shut, Nicky saw cinder-block, a sagging rack holding costumes.
"We were gonna head next door," Nicky said, his fingers aching for the cigarette he had left on the table. "Come on, I'm sure she's got another show. We can come back."
Shay's jaw was set, and Nicky felt that strong impulse to touch his gun one more time, just to make sure it was there. If Shay ever went down, it would be in an eyeblink, quick as a rattlesnake. That gleam in his eyes was as ominous as the dry tremble of the rattles.
Shay shook his head. "You stay here," he told the two bodyguards. "Make sure she doesn't leave. I'll be back soon."
Cinder-block. Nicky hadn't had time to scope the place out before walking in, not fully. He had no idea if they could get out that way, but he didn't think Shay would be that stupid.
"I think Benny said we might need your guys. Pullin down somethin big tomorrow. Come on, let's get a drink. The skirt'll keep."
That fierce glare-eyed expression didn't leave Shay's face, and Nicky wished again for his cigarette. No better way to look disinterested and relaxed when he wasn't. After a moment, Shay made a gesture to his guys, an index finger gliding toward the main stage again.
Get out of there, Nicky thought, as hard as he could. Get out now. I did what I could without tonight ending in blood.