“I suppose we could make a place for her, eventually, after everything blows over,” he mused.
“What about your other clubs?”
“The Tupelo Room on West 143rd, and Slim Sal’s even further up Lenox. Rough and rougher. Both are for coloreds, and frankly, I leave them to my managers. Eva wouldn’t last long in either place. She needs to play to folks like us.”
He touched the curve beneath her jaw. “Like you.”
Did Eva need a white audience? Would colored patrons resent her? Julia remembered Eva’s trouble finding work, the rejection she’d faced for being too light and yet not white. Or might colored audiences bristle to see images of slavery bathed in glamorous golden light? Julia wished she could ask Eva what went through her mind to be part of that spectacle, gaped at by throngs of what could be the wealthy descendants of slave owners, pelted by their gifts of worthless rings. It was yet another conversation she longed to have with Eva.
Later, after the filet de boeuf en croûte had been served and cleared away, Julia’s thoughts returned to the arrogant amusement in Arthur Goldsmith’s eyes, and then for the hundredth time to Eva’s broken hobble as she’d been yanked from Kessler’s office. This last image of her enigmatic friend troubled her, and she flinched. The wine in her glass swayed.
“No news might be bad news,” she said. “Don’t you have some idea where she is?”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“What if she’s trapped somewhere? What if someone forced her out of that apartment?”
Wallace’s head rocked back in exasperation. “Julia, please. Leave it. I will find her.”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“Do not even think of looking for her yourself. You could stumble into any number of hornet nests. More than that, you could make things worse for her.”
What did that mean?
“I’m serious. It could be dangerous. You can’t take risks you don’t understand.”
Julia willed reticence into her eyes. She was not a child. She understood the risk. The danger was precisely why she wanted to find her friend.
Wallace took the glass from her hand. He drew the inner length of her forearm across his chin, lingering at the crook of her elbow. Her hand dangled above his right ear. Julia watched the slow turn of radiant colors from the diamonds in her bracelet, as if she were deep underwater. “Do not involve yourself. Do not ask questions you don’t understand of people you don’t know.”
He lowered her arm and slipped it inside his jacket. Guiding her palm across his crisp shirtfront, over the steady postprandial thump of his heart, he pressed it hard onto a gun sleeping against his ribs.
She jerked upright and tried to pull free.
His grip tightened, forcing her fingers over the contours of the weapon. “Good. You should be frightened. Guns are everywhere, Julia. This”—he jiggled the weapon beneath her hand—“gives everyone time to think. And if it fires, I’ve lost, not won.”
The curtain stirred, and beyond it a throat was cleared with forced vigor. “Telephone call for you, Mr. Wallace, sir.”
He squeezed her hand before lifting it for a kiss. “Trust me on this.”
With a wry half smile Wallace slid along the cushions and disappeared. Julia gripped her water glass and took several calming sips. By the time he returned, she had gathered her handbag and resigned herself to the conversation, and likely the evening, being over.
“I must apologize,” he said, settling beside her. “I had hoped to advance my cause with you this evening. But it seems that hope must wait.”
“Your cause?”
“My suit, if you prefer.”
“Your seduction. Let’s be clear about these things. Your conquest.”
She spoke with a facetious lilt, but Wallace’s nose tightened in distaste. He laid his palm flat against the white linen tablecloth and tapped twice with his forefinger. “I loathe those terms. Any intimacies I enjoy are freely given. I despise any notion of conquest.”
Julia felt chastened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was glib of me.”
“And I’m sorry for abandoning the evening.” He brushed a knuckle across her cheek. “A problem has come up at the Half-Shell I must attend to. I’ve called for the car. Edgar will take you home. I promise fewer distractions next time.”
He helped her from the booth and guided her through the hushed room. Reaching the entrance, he kissed her cheek and transferred her to the waiting doorman.
Julia felt every moment of his gaze as she descended the seven steps to the pavement and the solicitous Edgar. When the Duesenberg eased into traffic, she smiled. Although curtailed and unsettling, the evening had deepened her interest in Martin Wallace, and she felt certain the attraction was mutual. He would be an exquisite lover.
The familiar ache tipped her head back into the smooth leather. But something else eluded her, perplexed her. She wanted more than his carnal attention. She could dance that dance, but why settle for the pastime of the bored and disillusioned?
Yes, Wallace desired her. But she was still a bauble to him. A prized bauble, one whose qualities he discerned and valued, but a bauble nonetheless. She would be patient, relish the wait. Soon they’d understand each other. She smiled at her reflection in the window. At last. What a pleasure it was to finally know such a man.
Even if he carried a gun.
CHAPTER 21
The following afternoon Julia paid the driver and turned to the entrance of the handsome West 135th Street branch of the city’s public library. Four young Negro boys in enormous caps sprawled with tangled legs across the steps. One tried to whistle at her, but what emerged was a high-pitched hoo-hoo. They rolled from side to side, laughing and pointing.
“Hot choo,” another called out. “Whatchu jig chasin’?”
They hooted as she crouched to see their faces, shading her eyes from the glaring pavement. “Them rags some scratch. To da bricks, looksa. Ooo-wah.” Their glee was like a new kind of mysterious music. Were they mocking her? Cursing her? Possibly both, but they were right to laugh at her.
