The Errant Heiress

Chapter Three - Cheek to Cheek

Chapter Three - Cheek to Cheek

After so much time of being cooped up in the office, I had forgotten what fresh air even smelled like. On the Ocean City Boardwalk, it smelled like the sea, rotting caramel apples, salted toffee, and the sawdust they use to scrub the boards, underscored by the gentle reek of gull guano. I decided I wasn’t missing much.

My dim-witted assistant paid the cabbie and I waited until he offered me his arm; I swear the dinner jacket he was wearing must have been sewn onto him. There’s no other way he could have gotten those big arms of his into the sleeves. I was thinking of adopting the method for the next time I decided to wear an evening gown. Dressing up for tonight was murder.

Sven led me up the short flight of stairs to the Blue Room entrance and escorted me inside. The place was all decked out in fancy white plasterwork and blue curtains of lush, heavy brocade. The floor was marble and dotted with tables and chairs, except for a space that was cleared for dancing. The band was setting up to play, and several couples were setting up to twirl around in front of it.

We were shown to a table for two and a waiter brought us drinks. Last time I had a drink in public, it was before the alcohol ban was lifted. I ordered “Irish coffee”, and got whiskey in a porcelain cup. The bad old days.

I let Sven give me a couple of spins round the dance floor once the band had set up, just to get a feel of the room. Bobby Rossini’s goons stuck out like a sore thumb. Well, like two heavyset, thick necked, zoot suit wearing sore thumbs with arms crossed in front of them to conceal the bulges in their jackets. The crooner wasn’t even on the stage yet, the mooks. I assumed at least another one of Rossini’s geniuses was with him in the dressing room, fixed to plug him in case he decided to make tracks.

Finally, Vic stepped up on stage, sweating buckets. He wasn’t much to look at, standing there in front of the microphone. He was short for a man his height, balding, though very young, and he looked shifty, eyes darting nervously across the room. That last thing I couldn’t exactly hold against him, seeing as how he was constantly accompanied by goons ready to hold cold steel against him. Hell, in my current bourbon-deprived state, I’d be looking shifty, too.

When he started singing, though, I could see the appeal. The man could sing the habit off a nun. He had the voice of a classically-trained angel, not one of the rosy-cheeked cherubs, but one of those Old Testament ones with flaming swords and everything. I doubt that he even needed a microphone.

I made a point of being seen fawning over him like so many other patrons. The attention of Vic’s guardians was on him, but I maneuvered Sven into their line of sight a couple of times, just to make sure. As Vic’s set was winding down, Sven and I sat a spell to cool off, and then I sent him outside to get me a bunch of flowers. He delivered them as Vic was leaving the stage amid cheers and applause.

“Here you go, Miss Noire”, he said, sheepishly. “Can I step outside again for a couple of minutes? There’s some ladies need help starting their car.”

I glanced above his shoulder at the dames in question, a couple of moneyed spinsters by the look of them, and they gave me the old eyeball right back. I felt a crooked smile creep up on me. A couple of minutes? With the look in their eyes, Sven would be lucky if he got home in time for breakfast.

“Sure, Sven. Take all the time you need.”

He promised he’d be right back, but I knew better. I picked up the flowers, checked my piece was in my purse, redid my lipstick and made my way for the dressing rooms past a score of dancing girls covered in sequins and chiffon.

I recognized Vic’s door right off the bat. It had a little brass plate with a star and the inscription “Mr. V. Fontane”. It also had a pair of the thickest ham-fisted help Rossini could afford right in front of it. I sashayed right to it. My hand was already on door knob when one of the goons decided to demonstrate his limited ability of speech.

“Hey, lady! Where do you think you’re going?”

I put on my most flirtatious smile, and damn near fluttered my eyelids right off. “Why, I’m the entertainment’s entertainment”, I said, immediately regretting the complicated sentence structure. “The guy deserves a little company to help him relax between the sets.”

They shared a look. I plucked at the bunch of flowers.

“See, I’m just looking to show him my appreciation. I won’t bite. Much.”

They shared another look. I was thinking they weren’t convinced, but then one of them cracked a smile.

“Sure, doll. Step right in.”

And step in I did.

I found Vic laid back in his chair, his jacket slung across the armrest, cigar in hand. He looked up at me, puzzled.

“Renata sent me”, I said. I pushed the flowers into his free hand. “These are for you, by the way.”

“The Boss’ niece? W... why?” He looked like he was struck dumber than he had ever been struck before. I was intrigued.