The drummer struck the cymbals, and she blinked, forced her attention off his broad back, and started toward the band. How could she let herself get distracted?
A shaded outline lingered in the corner, snapping her back to the seriousness of the moment.
She stopped. “I’ll never trust your hideaway heart.” The figure moved forward, and her muscles tightened. “No, I’ll never trust your hideaway heart.”
A tall sailor emerged from the darkness with a blonde hanging around his neck. Vera’s shoulders curled forward with an exhale. She tossed a wink his way and sashayed to the stage. Striking a pose, she belted out the finish with her jazz flare. “Your hideaway heart.”
Applause soared as high as her frustration. Everything looked clear. Wait. Offstage. She cut a quick glance to her left. Dottie, the cigarette girl, sat on a stool, counting her profits. Her heavily mascaraed eyes peered over, and Vera feigned a smile. Dottie grinned back, unreserved.
The horde cheered for another encore.
Not happening.
One bow. One wave. Done.
She hustled off stage, not granting Maestro another chance to tap his beloved music stand.
Mick tugged the hem of his sports coat, ensuring the concealment of his revolver. The holster had shifted during the scuffle he’d voluntarily stepped into. He shoved clenched hands into his pockets. The spectacle had drawn attention to himself. Foolish. But what was he to do? Let the lady get pummeled by a man twice her size?
Snaking through the crowd, his gaze shifted from the bouncer to the bartender. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except the blatant disregard of the Volstead Act. Tomorrow he’d contact the federal agents, but it wouldn’t do any good. Pittsburgh was one of the wettest cities in a supposedly dry nation. And no matter what his badge read, there was not one thing he could do about it. His temple throbbed against his hat lining.
No sight of the manager or owner. He cataloged the entrances and exits. Perhaps they holed up in the offices. But unless he wanted to pose as a busboy, there was no procuring a clearance for that part of the building.
The familiar odor of men’s perspiration and tobacco smoke seeped through his skin, leaking into the stale memories of his time in the Army. The boisterous camaraderie of men. The cramped space. Only then, they’d been protecting freedom. Here, they were breaking the law. Every single one of them.
Even the prima donna.
He scratched his neck. The disgraceful slop of words from the meandering drunks had clued him into her charm, but he wasn’t prepared for breathtaking. Emerald eyes and satiny skin. A dangerous combination that screamed trouble.
“Care for a smoke, mister?” The cigarette girl’s voice squeaked as she approached him.
The slight wiggle in her hips and generous flutter of her eyelashes suggested she was advertising more than the tray of Lucky Strikes hanging from her slim neck. Cosmetics slapped on like war paint couldn’t mask her youthful visage, her chestnut waves reminding him of his sister.
A growl strove to break free in his chest. What appeal did this establishment have that lured young women into its seedy boundaries?
She angled toward him, her neckline plunging deeper than the Monongahela River. The urge to shed his jacket and cover her stole through him, but that’d give him away. “No, thank you.”
Brown eyes rounded and pink lips pursed. Was she surprised at his refusal or the politeness of his words? She blinked twice and strutted away.
He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh as he walked to a less-crowded corner. The captain’s words hedged his thoughts. Look for any peculiar activity. He’d seen degrading and reprehensible, but not peculiar.
A distinguishable cackle pulled his attention. Lieutenant Bolin wobbled on a barstool and then proceeded to chug a pint of ale. Another officer snared by the rumrunners. How much graft money was Bolin given to buy his silence? His protection?
Mick ground his teeth. Better call it a night. He couldn’t risk his superior exposing him. Besides, too much prodding would incite suspicion, and he wasn’t inclined to exchange punches with the bouncer. The empty stage attracted his gaze. If the Red Canary hid wrongdoings under her pretty wings, he’d be watching when she unfurled them.
CHAPTER 2
Vera’s dressing room door burst open.
She gasped stale air, dropping her lipstick brush onto her lap.
“Good show tonight, kitten.” Her manager slithered in, his gaze a lazy swagger across the small space before settling on her.
“Not havin’ it, Artie.” She scowled, first at the intruder and then at the red smudge on her tan skirt.
He shrugged. “Only makeup. It’ll wash.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She snatched the cosmetic brush and flung it onto the vanity tray. “This is my dressing room, not a social hall. Quit barging in on me.” This marked the third time in a week. What was so difficult about knocking? She bit back a huff. Because that would suggest a note of consideration. And Arthur Cavenhalt’s scope of courtesy was thinner than his hairline. “I want that door fixed. With a lock that works.”
“It’s in my office. A nickel-brushed knob just for my pretty canary.” His languid perusal of her form made her joints stiffen. “Hey, you’re all tense.”
“I got the jumps.”
His lips curled into a smile. “Who did Angelo throw out tonight?”
“No one. But it happened again. Found another note on the piano.”
“This man’s carrying quite the torch for you.” He laughed, his hazel eyes squinting. “What’d it say this time? A proposal?”
“You can jab all you want, Artie, but you and I both know those notes are threats. Don’t forget this past fall.” She winced, not wanting to relive the memory which already had haunted her once this evening. “The creep dragged me out the door the minute I stepped off stage. What would’ve happened if Carson hadn’t found me?” He’d packed some heavy punches to the attacker’s jaw before the steely-eyed man dashed away. Vera had launched herself into Carson’s arms and hadn’t had the courage to step away since. Well, not until recently.
“But the boss handled it. Even hired a guard for you.”
Angelo. Her thick defender took his protective role as seriously as he took his liquor.
“Those love letters aren’t related to what happened last September. You’re overreacting like a typical female.”
She stood, her toes pinching in her shoes. “Typical females don’t risk their necks each night. Don’t commit crimes for a paycheck.” Though legally she could only be arrested if she got caught with a drink in her hands—which would never happen.
“What’s got into you, kitten? Not happy?”
Happiness was not serenading rowdies with their shirttails hanging out. Being trapped in a booze box where days melted into years. But then, what was it? Maybe when her voice reflected the strums of her heart, the song becoming as much a part of her as a vital organ—where she needed it to breathe, to survive. Happiness was music … and all she had left.
She snatched her gown previously draped over the dressing screen and slid a hanger through it. “This place has no class. And too many have itchy fingers.” She hung the swanky garment on the metal pipe running across the ceiling.