Grave Phantoms
Page 58
He eyed her with open interest and settled a warm hand on her lower back as they fell into step on the sidewalk.
“It’s like we’re on an actual date,” she said, unable to stop herself from smiling. On the way here, he’d pulled the car over a block away from home and kissed her thoroughly. Her lips still felt swollen, and the warmth that had spread through her center hadn’t subsided. Looking at his handsome face with all its sharp lines made her feel a little buzzed. He was a thousand times better than champagne.
“Here? This is the last place I’d take you,” he said, humor lurking in the corners of his eyes. “We’d go somewhere swank, like out to the theater to see a play or a concert.”
“I’d settle for a picture show.”
“Never settle,” he said, and his merry mood turned sober.
“Don’t plan to.” She put her hand behind her back and pulled his arm to her side. Threaded her fingers through his. “I know exactly what I want, and I aim to get it, no matter the cost.”
He squeezed her hand tightly and sighed. “Have I told you lately how much I enjoy your company, Miss Magnusson?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Remind me to do just that if we make it out of this dump alive.”
It was easy enough to get inside the club. The thug who guarded the door was ten steps down from the tuxedoed bouncers at Gris-Gris and couldn’t have cared less who they were, as long as Bo was putting money in his open palm. And it didn’t get much better inside.
“Hell” was an appropriate name, Astrid decided, when she scanned the packed main floor. It was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. The floor was sticky and covered with peanut shells. And though they had a stage, the jazz band playing on it was less than spectacular. Only a few couples bothered to dance. Everyone else seemed to be more interested in hiding in the shadows—and there were plenty of those.
Bo ordered them sidecars from the bar, and they found an empty table with a good vantage point. Astrid flicked peanut shells off the table and stealthily wiped down the rims of their glasses while Bo surveyed their surroundings.
“Don’t drink it,” he told her as he looked around the room. “From the smell of it, it’s probably bathtub hooch. And from the looks of the regulars around here, it might kill a few brain cells.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. She trusted Bo’s nose when it came to booze, and he was right about the regulars, if that’s who these people were. Most of them were men, and though no one gave Bo a second glance, several people were eyeing Astrid in a hungry sort of way, and it made her feel uncomfortable.
“I don’t see any dance hall girls or burlesque booths,” she said. “Maybe things have changed since Mr. Haig was here. Maybe the secret society shut down while the yacht was missing this year.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Don’t be obvious, but take a look at the door in the corner by the billiards tables. Two bouncers there, but only one at the door outside? That seems strange. Also sounds like there’s different music coming from back there.”
He was right. Two men making their way to the inner door stopped, paid one of the bouncers, and received tickets in return. That’s where they needed to be.
Bo agreed. They slowly made their way to the inner door.
“How much?” Bo asked.
One of the bouncers looked him over. “Ten cents a ticket. One ticket to dance. Five for the private burlesque shows. That’s five apiece if she wants to watch, too,” he said, nodding toward Astrid.
Bo handed him a bill. “We’ll take ten tickets.”
The bouncer gave Astrid a knowing look that made her feel positively dirty. It was all she could do to smile and not shout out, It’s not what you think!
“By the way, any idea if Mad Hammett is in tonight?” Bo asked as the man pocketed his money and counted off ten paper tickets from a roll around his wrist.
“You and the dame lookin’ to get upstairs, eh?”
“Maybe.”
“Ask Henry at the carousel.” He handed Bo a string of red tickets and gave Astrid a slow smile. “Enjoy yourselves.”
Not likely. Astrid hurried through the open door with Bo and was glad to hear it shut behind them. But not for long. The backside of Hell was just as crowded as the front. Men, and a few women, sat at tables along the front wall, waiting their turn with the “taxi dancers.” Most of the dancing girls seemed bored, and some of the men were holding them a lot closer than any dancing Astrid had ever seen. A few even seemed to be giving out more than dances.
But that was no concern of Astrid’s. Bo grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the center of the dance floor, where a large circular hut was covered in carnival lights and paintings of frolicking nude angels. A velvet rope and another bouncer stood watch over the door here.
“You Henry?” Bo asked, holding out their tickets.
“Maybe.”
Bo added a dollar bill to the tickets. “Fellow out front said you were the guy to ask if we wanted to see Mad Hammett.”
He looked at Astrid and took Bo’s money. “Yeah, all right. Booth four.”
“No need. We just want to talk to Hammett,” Bo said.
“You want to talk, you go into the booth. If Hammett likes the look of ya, he’ll stop by.”
“But—”
“Not my rules, buddy. But I can tell you this much. If you’re gun-shy about this in here,” he said, nodding his head toward the carousel, “you ain’t gonna last five minutes upstairs.”
“It’s like we’re on an actual date,” she said, unable to stop herself from smiling. On the way here, he’d pulled the car over a block away from home and kissed her thoroughly. Her lips still felt swollen, and the warmth that had spread through her center hadn’t subsided. Looking at his handsome face with all its sharp lines made her feel a little buzzed. He was a thousand times better than champagne.
“Here? This is the last place I’d take you,” he said, humor lurking in the corners of his eyes. “We’d go somewhere swank, like out to the theater to see a play or a concert.”
“I’d settle for a picture show.”
“Never settle,” he said, and his merry mood turned sober.
“Don’t plan to.” She put her hand behind her back and pulled his arm to her side. Threaded her fingers through his. “I know exactly what I want, and I aim to get it, no matter the cost.”
He squeezed her hand tightly and sighed. “Have I told you lately how much I enjoy your company, Miss Magnusson?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Remind me to do just that if we make it out of this dump alive.”
It was easy enough to get inside the club. The thug who guarded the door was ten steps down from the tuxedoed bouncers at Gris-Gris and couldn’t have cared less who they were, as long as Bo was putting money in his open palm. And it didn’t get much better inside.
“Hell” was an appropriate name, Astrid decided, when she scanned the packed main floor. It was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. The floor was sticky and covered with peanut shells. And though they had a stage, the jazz band playing on it was less than spectacular. Only a few couples bothered to dance. Everyone else seemed to be more interested in hiding in the shadows—and there were plenty of those.
Bo ordered them sidecars from the bar, and they found an empty table with a good vantage point. Astrid flicked peanut shells off the table and stealthily wiped down the rims of their glasses while Bo surveyed their surroundings.
“Don’t drink it,” he told her as he looked around the room. “From the smell of it, it’s probably bathtub hooch. And from the looks of the regulars around here, it might kill a few brain cells.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. She trusted Bo’s nose when it came to booze, and he was right about the regulars, if that’s who these people were. Most of them were men, and though no one gave Bo a second glance, several people were eyeing Astrid in a hungry sort of way, and it made her feel uncomfortable.
“I don’t see any dance hall girls or burlesque booths,” she said. “Maybe things have changed since Mr. Haig was here. Maybe the secret society shut down while the yacht was missing this year.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Don’t be obvious, but take a look at the door in the corner by the billiards tables. Two bouncers there, but only one at the door outside? That seems strange. Also sounds like there’s different music coming from back there.”
He was right. Two men making their way to the inner door stopped, paid one of the bouncers, and received tickets in return. That’s where they needed to be.
Bo agreed. They slowly made their way to the inner door.
“How much?” Bo asked.
One of the bouncers looked him over. “Ten cents a ticket. One ticket to dance. Five for the private burlesque shows. That’s five apiece if she wants to watch, too,” he said, nodding toward Astrid.
Bo handed him a bill. “We’ll take ten tickets.”
The bouncer gave Astrid a knowing look that made her feel positively dirty. It was all she could do to smile and not shout out, It’s not what you think!
“By the way, any idea if Mad Hammett is in tonight?” Bo asked as the man pocketed his money and counted off ten paper tickets from a roll around his wrist.
“You and the dame lookin’ to get upstairs, eh?”
“Maybe.”
“Ask Henry at the carousel.” He handed Bo a string of red tickets and gave Astrid a slow smile. “Enjoy yourselves.”
Not likely. Astrid hurried through the open door with Bo and was glad to hear it shut behind them. But not for long. The backside of Hell was just as crowded as the front. Men, and a few women, sat at tables along the front wall, waiting their turn with the “taxi dancers.” Most of the dancing girls seemed bored, and some of the men were holding them a lot closer than any dancing Astrid had ever seen. A few even seemed to be giving out more than dances.
But that was no concern of Astrid’s. Bo grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the center of the dance floor, where a large circular hut was covered in carnival lights and paintings of frolicking nude angels. A velvet rope and another bouncer stood watch over the door here.
“You Henry?” Bo asked, holding out their tickets.
“Maybe.”
Bo added a dollar bill to the tickets. “Fellow out front said you were the guy to ask if we wanted to see Mad Hammett.”
He looked at Astrid and took Bo’s money. “Yeah, all right. Booth four.”
“No need. We just want to talk to Hammett,” Bo said.
“You want to talk, you go into the booth. If Hammett likes the look of ya, he’ll stop by.”
“But—”
“Not my rules, buddy. But I can tell you this much. If you’re gun-shy about this in here,” he said, nodding his head toward the carousel, “you ain’t gonna last five minutes upstairs.”
