“When a big fish lands in your lap, you don’t let him get away.”
I was oddly flattered.
“Why did you come to my show, Mr. Lament?” she asked.
“My father likes your voice. You remind him of my mother.”
Her brow furrowed and her red lips pursed. She didn’t know what to make of that. “Did you like my voice?” Her tone wasn’t flirtatious. It was blunt.
“Yes,” I admitted. “You might be the best I’ve ever heard. But I got the feeling you don’t like singing.”
“I love to sing,” she protested.
“You sing like you hate your audience.”
She frowned. Then she shrugged, releasing the grimace. “Maybe I do.”
“Why?”
She was quiet for several seconds, pondering. “I’m not sure you’d understand, and I’m too tired to explain it. It might take me a while.”
“Is it just the audience at Shimmy’s or do you hate everyone who listens to you sing?”
“You don’t mince words, do you, Mr. Lament? Kind of bold, aren’t you?”
“Says the woman waiting for me at my hotel at four o’clock in the morning.”
She laughed, a deep rumbling sound that gurgled up from her chest and spilled out her pretty mouth. Her laugh was as incongruous as her voice, and I laughed too, but my laughter was from surprise more than anything else.
“So you want me to write a song for you. Is that it?” I asked. I didn’t admit I wanted the same thing.
“I do. But I have some questions.”
“Questions?”
“Yes,” she said, and she took a deep breath like she was beginning a long recitation.
“Are you a mobster?” she asked.
I didn’t know how to respond. Was I? When you are born into something—a culture, a religion, a place—how do you separate it from who you are? It was like asking someone, “Are you Irish?” or “Are you Jewish?” You could be Irish even if you’d never spent a day in Ireland. You could be Jewish even if you’d never set foot in a synagogue. It was something in the blood. Something in the history. I could say I wasn’t in the mob and mean it with all my heart. But I still . . . was.
“Do I look like a mobster?” I asked her instead.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?”
She raised one slim brow, like I was toying with her and she didn’t much care for it. “You’re Italian,” she said.
“Sicilian.” But close enough. “So you think all Italians are mobsters?” It was a common stereotype.
“Italians that live in this city and look like you? Yes,” she said, nodding. “It’s your hair. Your clothes. Your looks. The way you carry yourself. Your reputation. You’re a gangster. I just wanted to see if you’d admit it.”
“People see what they see. They’ll think what they think. And I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
She studied me for a moment. “Why would you want to? Gangsters like you run this town. Especially the clubs. They decide who works. They decide who doesn’t. For whatever reason, they don’t like me. I can outsing anyone. But no one will book me.”
“You got a pretty big opinion of yourself for someone so small.”
Her eyes blazed and her back stiffened, and I thought for a moment she was going to abandon her mission, whatever it was. But she took a deep breath and let it out so slowly I could have had a cigarette while she exhaled.
“I can sing, Mr. Lament.”
“Yes, you can, Miss Mine.”
“I look good. I sound good. And I work hard. I don’t do junk. I don’t even smoke.”
“Good for you.” I searched my pocket for a cigarette just to be contrary. A pack usually lasted me months. Everyone smoked, so I tried not to. I didn’t like being dependent. On anything.
“I could make you a lot of money,” Esther said.
“How, exactly?” I lit the cigarette and took a deep drag.
“I want you to be my manager.”
I gaped at her, smoke billowing from my lips. “I write songs. I don’t manage talent.”
“You manage yourself, don’t you? You manage your own talent. You don’t have a manager.”
“How do you know?” I got the feeling she was guessing, but she was right. I didn’t have a manager, and I didn’t want one.
“I just can’t imagine anyone telling you what to do,” she said.
“You’re sure trying to,” I shot back wryly.
Her mouth quirked, but she was too busy negotiating to smile.
“You know the business. You know the players. You have contacts,” she said.
“But . . . I might be a mobster,” I argued softly. She met my gaze, big brown eyes solemn, and realization flooded me. That was why she was here. She wanted a mobster.
“I won’t cause you a minute’s trouble. I’ll be a blessing. I’ll sing, and I’ll dance, and I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll be the best investment you ever made,” she said, her voice firm, eyes clinging to mine. “I don’t want to sleep with you. Or anyone else, actually. But I’ll even do that.”
“And we’re done here, Miss Mine,” I said, standing up and grinding out my cigarette beneath my toe. I’d been intrigued. Now I was just insulted. She was bold. She was beautiful. But she was terrible at persuasion.
For a moment her back bowed, and her chin hit her chest. Then she straightened and rose to her feet. The girl who didn’t want me to see her tattered coat had just propositioned me. It didn’t make much sense.
“How old are you, Baby Ruth?”
“Baby Ruth?” She glowered at the nickname, but I wasn’t deterred.
“Ruth. Esther. Both Bible names. Babe Ruth was the Sultan of Swat and the King of Swing. You can be the Queen of Sing. It’s a compliment. How old are you?”
“I’m almost twenty-two.”
“You don’t look it. When were you born?” I was trying to trip her up.
“1939.”
“When’s your birthday?”
She shrugged. “I like cake and presents all year round, if that’s why you’re asking. But I am old enough, I assure you. I graduated high school five years ago, and I’ve been trying to get someone to take me seriously ever since.”
“Does your daddy know where you are?”
“Excuse me? Does your daddy know where you are?” she shot back. “I don’t have a dad. Or a manager.” She emphasized the last word.
“What about your band? Are you negotiating for them too?”
“My brothers? I can’t help them if I can’t help myself. I can’t get them work if I’m not working. I need a manager who can get us work.”
“I don’t want to be your manager. That’s not my thing. I don’t need that kind of responsibility.”
“Okay,” she said, folding her arms. “And how old are you, Mr. Lament?”
“Older than you are.”
“You don’t look that much older. What are you, thirty?”
“Almost.”
“But you don’t have a wife?”