Page 35 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
Fern turned her head, angling it away from the men.
Patrice hooked her arm through Fern’s. “Don’t do that. Chin up.”
She was embarrassed that her cousin had noticed. “It’s not that easy.”
“Neither was calling me earlier today.” She squeezed Fern’s arm. “Your eye doesn’t look too bad either. Who smacked you anyway?”
“Oh, well, I…” She’d forgotten about her eye until then; the makeup must have rubbed off a little.
“Tell me it wasn’t Cousin Buck,” Patrice said, looking scandalized.
“Buchanan? No.” She didn’t want to tell her that it had been her father. “I just got caught up with a bad guy.”
Patrice lifted one penciled brow, eyeing Fern as if in anew light. “Well, forget that dunderhead. You’re with us now. Come on.”
Sarah turned into a dark, slim alleyway. If it hadn’t been for Patrice hooked at her side, she might not have followed. Trash cans lined the alley, and the smell was nearly overwhelming. The humidity and the sun had to have baked whatever was in the metal cans all day. She held her breath as Sarah stopped farther down the alley and knocked on a door. Like at Mama Rosa’s, a narrow slot in the door slid open.
“Fish scales,” Sarah said. The peephole shuttered, and Sarah tossed them a victorious grin over her shoulder. She was the first to saunter inside as soon as the door swung open.
It was nothing like the Lion’s Den. Instead of walking into a home, then down into a glitzy and vast restaurant, it felt like they were entering the warm, wet mouth of a beast. A single, red bulb overhead cast fiendish light upon scores of leaflets, advertisements, and circulars plastered to the walls of a short hallway. The man who let them in gestured toward a metal door at the end of the hallway. Muffled music and voices came from beyond it.
“Enjoy your evening, ladies,” he said, and again, Sarah led the way.
She pushed open the door and entered a dark, smoky room, packed to the gills. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling instead of crystal chandeliers; the tables weren’t dressed, and none of them matched. Neither did the chairs: Some were folding seats, others fine cane-back chairs. There were quite a fewsofas and armchairs scattered around the place as well. Men and women drank martinis and champagne in the thick haze of cigarette smoke, the low clamor of their voices drowned by a brass band playing in the corner of what looked like a repurposed factory floor. Like at the Lion’s Den, there were patrons of all different classes and races mingling together. It seemed that far from judging eyes, no one cared about those differences.
“That’s Benny,” Patrice said into Fern’s ear, pointing toward the bass player on the corner stage. “Gloria’s man.”
He caught sight of them weaving toward the only empty table and winked at Gloria, whose fingers danced in a flirtatious wave.
“Her mother doesn’t know,” Patrice said as they took their chairs. Then added, “For obvious reasons.”
Benny and the rest of his band were African American, and given Gloria was white, Fern could imagine her mother’s reaction to the news. If she was anything like Mrs. Adair, Fern envisioned fainting spells and hysterics.
Sarah had gone to the bar and now rejoined them, saying she’d ordered them all Gin Rickeys. Heads turned in their direction, though none really had until Sarah’s return. They were eyeing up her, not Fern or her scars. With the lighting in the room dim, she settled back into her chair, crossing her legs, and paid attention to the band. Their music was easy and breathy, with a few low wails of a trumpet and cymbal rasps. The melody worked under her skin as the four of them waited for their drinks and Stephen to arrive. Patrice had put her feet up on the seat next to her so no one would take it.
The waitress brought the Gin Rickeys, and they’d barely lifted the glasses to their lips when Stephen appeared at Patrice’s shoulder. He leaned down to smack a kiss on her neck, and she jumped, splashing her drink.
“You boob!” she screeched. But before Stephen could take the chair she’d been holding for him, another man slid into it.
“Hey! Look here, bub, that seat’s—” Patrice went quiet as the man tipped up the brim of his hat.
Fern choked on the first sip of gin and soda rushing down her throat. Her eyes burned with tears as Rodney Rosetti stared at her. His mouth curled into a mean smirk. He lounged back in the seat, crossing one leg over his opposite thigh.
“Hello there, dollface.” Two other men came to stand close behind him. One of them was Francis.
Fern set her glass on the table. “What are you doing here?”
Patrice gaped, her cheeks paling under her rouge. Stephen, still standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders, looked like he was ready to bolt. Gloria’s jaw hung open too. Only Sarah continued to sip her drink, as if a gangster hadn’t just joined them.
“What, no hello?” Rodney teased.
“I… Hello.” Fern twisted around, glancing toward the door.
“Cal’s not with us,” Rodney said, and she faced forward again. A chill worked its way up her arms.
“Who’s your friend, Fern?” Sarah asked, lighting a Lucky Strike.
She knew who Rodney was. They all did, Fern waswilling to bet. Rodney sent her a coy grin but didn’t introduce himself.
