Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Amicitia-June, 1920

Chicago-June 1920

"Excited?" Her father asked as the car zoomed them towards the hotel from the train station.

"I am, rather. I'm hoping to get some ideas for stories."

"We have a deal, so don't get too many ideas. You bring me the gossip from the women's quarters and act as hostess, and you can push back the wedding, although I don't see why you want to. Darcy has said he'll allow you to write since it apparently means so much to you."

Clara smiled pleasantly while seething internally. She accepted her fate was to marry, and really, it will be nice to have a house. She'd like a dog and an actual home. But the thought of waking up every morning to Darcy Blaine made her feel vaguely ill.

He was the most boring human being she'd ever met, and she'd been her father's de facto hostess since she was barely more than a child. She'd spent many a day attempting to entertain an octogenarian priest or ward boss who was more impressed with himself than she was with him. It wasn't, though, as if there were better options. She was going to have a certain life, which required marrying a certain type of man, and they were all duller than dishwater. The mush her dormitory used to serve on Saturday mornings had more flavor than Darcy. The dog would have to be Rin Tin Tin to make up for the lack of personality in the house.

And she hadn't been aware that writing was something she permission to continue with.

She and her father's butler/valet/general assistant Eddie caught each other's eye while her father shamed the hotel into giving him the suite he wanted, and finally, when the nicest and not the second nicest suite was ready, she waited until her father was distracted and changed out of the richly expensive summer day dress she was wearing into a far simpler blue suit and white cloche hat.

She had things to do.

Her first bit of business was a smashing success, so her mood was high as she left the loop and prepared to travel back to the South Side-even though this time she was going to make a detour.

She knew the real trick would be carrying out her plan when she arrived at 2222 Wabash Avenue.

Luckily, the older Italian man guarding the back door bought her story that she's Jimmy's wife at face value, and hands over a key and directions to his room (the $10 bill she slides him doesn't hurt, either).

Intellectually, from piecing together the information she had picked up, she knew that the Four Deuces homed a variety of money-making vices for the Torrio crime family. It wasn't, however, until a woman her age walked passed her with her left breast hanging out of a negligee that Clara started seriously pondering if illicit sex was one of the money-making operations homed here. When she finally landed on the richly yet tackily decorated hallway containing Jimmy's room, two different men leered at her and she rushed to open the door, opened it, and slammed it behind her.

Sitting at the desk a man stared down at a book. He was around her age, with thick dark hair and cheekbones you could cut yourself on. His sleeves were rolled up, and if she was going to put him in a story she would say he had strong arms and lovely hands. Her breath caught in her throat. At that moment, he turned toward her and slammed the book closed.

The first thing she saw was he was missing an eye, and then she realized the full extent of the damage. She could see some of his teeth where part of his check was missing. His face looked raw and painful like it had never quite healed from whatever happened. The look on his face was also painful. He looked completely horrified and was scrambling to put some sort of mask on.

"You're not Jimmy," she finally manages to say. He doesn't seem able to speak, and she considers walking back out into the hallway, except this man is far less frightening than the two who looked at her like they were thinking about how she looked with her dress off.