Eva greeted each guest with dazzling warmth. She embraced Duveen and kissed Julia’s cheek. When they settled onto the couches, Jerome remained behind the bar, silent and forgotten. Wallace too remained apart, leaning against the bar as he rolled the thin stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger. Timson sat on the arm of one of the sofas and pulled Eva to his knee, her chiffon dressing gown lapping over his shoes.
“You were swell tonight, baby,” he said, planting a loud kiss on her cheek. He ran a finger along her throat. “Pretty neck needs something more. One of those nice necklaces you got.”
“They’re at home, Mr. Timson.” She smiled and pushed his finger away.
“You got some beauties. I bet Mrs. Clark here would love to see one of them dazzlers.”
“You know they’re not here, Leonard.”
Timson drained his champagne. “You earned those fancy rocks, you oughta show them off.”
She demurred again, but he rose and sauntered to the bar. At his approach Jerome stepped back, receding into the farthest corner. Timson swung aside the Böcklin painting, revealing a square wall safe. He twisted the combination lock, opened the door, and pulled out a large, ornately inlaid wood box. He lowered it onto the bar with a show of caution. “Open it, punkin seed.”
Eva stood, her face stormy, all gracious charm gone. “How did you get that? It’s mine, Leonard. You had no right to take it. Give it back.”
She took a step forward, and he swung an elbow, as if to fend her off. Whatever he had taken was important to Eva. Her jewelry? The room quieted.
“Who pays the rent for that place, punkin? That’s all the right I need.” Timson played with the lock as he spoke, and then he flicked aside the latch. It was broken, hanging from a single hinge.
“No!” Eva jerked out a hand in protest. “You can’t do that. You can’t go through my private things. That case was locked. It’s mine, and everything in it is mine.”
He lifted the lid, set aside the top tray of brooches, and drew out a sheaf of papers, tied with string.
“Wait!” Eva cried, but without effect.
The manuscript. It had to be. Eva’s hidden treasure. Julia had seen plenty of manuscripts before, and this one was ordinary enough, a stack of typewritten pages, corners bumped from handling. But the way Timson gripped it made Julia hold her breath. Something about it angered him, just as Eva had feared.
“No!” Eva objected. “That’s private.”
He waved the bundle in the air. “Harlem Angel, by Evangeline Pruitt. Real special, huh?”
Her novel. Eva’s prize, the achievement that would proclaim her name in print by Christmas. Julia held her breath. There was a perilous vulnerability to manuscripts that only those in the book business truly understood. Those papers represented hundreds or thousands of hours of thought and effort, of writing and rewriting, of doubt and despair and determination. Yet all that creative labor was only as secure as the paper it was typed on. Unless Eva had made a carbon copy—Julia fervently hoped she had—Timson held absolute power over the fate of all that work, that unrepeatable labor. Thank God there was no fire in the room, or Julia might faint from fear of it thudding into its flames.
Duveen must have felt the same terror. He leaped to his feet. “Thanks! We’ve been dying to get our hands on this. Eva’s going to be our next big thing.” He extended a hand for the manuscript as casually as if Timson had just found his lost umbrella.
“Think so, Duveen?”
Duveen hesitated, stalled by the menace in Timson’s voice. Sweat began to prickle Julia’s scalp. Were the radiators on?
Eva reached for the manuscript, but Timson pulled it to his chest. “You take me for a grade A idiot? I hear you wrote a book—you think I’m not gonna wonder what’s in it? You think I’m not gonna figure out where you stashed it and see for myself?” He chuckled. “You probably think a businessman like me ain’t gonna read a goddamn book. But this one, now, it was—interesting.”
“We can’t wait to read it,” Dolly Clark boomed, then giggled into her palm at the blast of her voice. “Pablo says it’ll make you famous.”
Eva forced a brittle laugh. “It’s just a story, Leonard. Mr. Goldsmith and Mr. Duveen think it’s good enough to publish. Isn’t that wonderful? It might bring in more people, like the lady said, even though it’s not about Carlotta’s. Just something like—people will know that.”
Timson smiled. “You think so? I ain’t so sure. I bet folks will think exactly that you’re talking about Carlotta’s. About me.”
He slapped the manuscript down onto the bar. The muscles in his jaw worked. “What’s all that crap about dope and messin’ up people? You know I treat my niggers just fine.” He spat the vile word in Eva’s face.
Julia choked on a gulp of air. Dolly Clark yelped like a startled parrot, splashing champagne onto Max’s shoe.
Eva shot a nervous glance at Jerome, who watched in alert silence, his dark face melting into the shadows behind Wallace. “It’s only a story. I made it up. It’s not Carlotta’s, and the owner, that Mr. Coburn, he isn’t you.”
“You’d be a pinked-up quiff if it weren’t for me, and your boy’d be pushing a broom.” Timson stabbed a squat thumb over his shoulder toward Jerome. “Some gratitude!”
Arms crossed, hands gripping his sleeves, Jerome dropped his eyes to the floor. Nothing in his face moved. Jerome the lauded poet. What language must be roiling in his mind, imperceptible beneath that smooth, subservient mask? Was it poetry or something more inchoate? Julia couldn’t imagine the strength needed to accept one’s own powerlessness. Yet she felt trapped too, pinned to the sofa as the drama played out in front of them.
Timson turned toward his guests. “Jungle energy, my ass. It’s her job to grease your pants, and she’s paid
