Читать книгу Stolen Kiss With The Hollywood Starlet - Lauri Robinson - Страница 11

The clicking of her heels on the concrete no longer made Shirley smile. She was too mad for that. He had to be the rudest man ever. Almost running her down with his big red car, and telling her to go home ’cause there’s no hope here.

Fool.

Hope was everywhere. Like dreams. You just had to snatch it up and hold it inside. Without it, there was no point in living. Hope was all she’d had for years; it’s what kept her going after she’d lost everything, everyone. It was what had brought her all the way to California. He was wrong. Hope was here, all right, because it was inside her. If a person didn’t have hope, they didn’t have anything. He needed to learn that.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with the way I talk, either,” she muttered under her breath.

Goose bumps rose up on her arms as she remembered Miss Larsen, the schoolteacher she’d had for only a short time. Pretty and young, Miss Larsen had been from out east somewhere, and had talked so funny the kids had teased her. Teased her so much she’d left.

Miss Larsen had said that ain’t was not a word. They’d all thought she’d been wrong. The silliest teacher ever.

“Excuse me.”

Shirley turned, but the person who’d spoken stepped past her into the street. So did others. She looked left and right, twice, and then followed. Others followed her, and they all made it across without anyone getting hit. The cars stopped, letting the last few folks make it all the way to the sidewalk before the cars started moving again.

She looked up and down the blocks. The only place people were walking across the streets were at the corners.

Dang.

Huffing out a breath, she shook her head. Just because he was right about that—jaywalking—didn’t mean he was right about everything. Him in his fancy black-and-white suit. Even his shoes had been black-and-white. Shoes like that weren’t made for working. That’s for sure. Neither was that fancy suit, even though it sure made him look nice. So did his hair, the way it was trimmed and combed over to one side. She’d only seen men who looked that spiffy, that handsome, in magazines. There hadn’t been a hint of a whisker on his chin. Matter of fact, his face had been so pleasant to look at she’d kept trying not to look at him because for some silly reason it made her heart pitter-patter.

She wasn’t here for pitter-patter. She was here to sing.

Turning about, she walked toward the newspaper stand. It sure seemed like a waste of time to walk all the way to the corner, then across the street, and all the way back down this side of the street, but if that was way folks around here did things, she’d just have to get used to it.

That wouldn’t be so hard.

A few minutes later, she decided crossing the street at the corners was downright easy compared to deciding what newspaper to buy. She’d never seen so many. In the end, she picked the one with a picture of a big building on the front page and a headline about a new theater that would open soon. The man selling the newspapers said that building was only a few blocks away, so that paper seemed like a logical choice.

She paid the man, tucked the newspaper under her arm and walked down the block to where a sign said the soup of the day was tomato.

The inside of the café was red and white everything, right down to the floor. She found a seat at a white table and sat down on a red chair, smiling at how bright and cheery everything appeared. Far cheerier than that man driving the red car. He had been nice looking, though. Far nicer than any of Olin’s sons. It could have been his suit. She wasn’t used to seeing men in suits.

“What can I get for you?”

Shirley glanced up at the woman with a red scarf tied around her dark brown hair. It was tied with a big red bow smack-dab in the middle of the top of her head. It looked spiffy. Shirley figured she might have to tie a scarf that way on her head. She’d have to buy one first. Which meant she needed to get a job.

“I would like a bowl of soup, please, and a cup of coffee,” she said, and then held her breath, waiting for the woman to comment on the way she talked.

The woman smiled and nodded. “Coming right up.”

Shirley smiled, too, mainly to herself. That man didn’t know what he was talking about. Determined to forget all about him, she laid the newspaper on the table, but then, just out of curiosity, scanned the entire front page for the word ain’t.

By the time a bowl of soup and cup of coffee were set on the table, she’d skimmed the entire newspaper and hadn’t found the word. Not once.

That was fine, she didn’t need that word, anyway. Pert-near never said it.

She scanned the newspaper again while eating her soup.

“Well, gal-darn it,” she whispered.

The soup was gone, except for a small amount on the bottom. She grasped the bowl with both hands, but then looked around the room. Others had bowls of soup, but none had picked up the bowl to drink the last bits, so she slid her hands off the bowl and folded them in her lap.

She watched and listened to other people, especially a woman dressed in a dark blue dress and wearing white shoes.

“More coffee?”

Shirley nodded and slid her cup to the edge of the table.

“New to town?” the waitress asked as she poured the coffee.

“Yes, I am,” Shirley answered, conscious of how she sounded. She didn’t sound like that other woman, that was for sure. “I truly am,” she added, focusing on sounding less like, well, a country bumpkin.

“If you’re looking for a job, Mel—he owns this place—is looking for a dishwasher.”

If felt as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach. Washing dishes. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but she’d washed dishes her entire life, and had sworn she wouldn’t do that again. Not for someone other than herself.

Once again, trying to make herself sound different, sophisticated, Shirley nodded. “Thank you, I will keep that in mind.” She’d heard the woman in the blue dress say that just a few moments ago. Then a hint of excitement fluttered across her stomach. If the waitress knew about a dishwashing job, she might know about other ones. “Do you know of any singing jobs?”

The waitress shook her head. “No.” She nodded toward a man sitting at a table. The same man who’d been talking to the woman in the blue dress. She’d left, but he hadn’t. “Roy would be the man to talk to about that.” The waitress slid the coffee cup back to the center of the table. “Coffee and soup’s fifty cents.”

Fifty cents? Shirley picked her purse up off the floor. At these prices she’d be broke in less time than it took to sneeze. She counted out the change and handed it to the waitress. “Thank you.”

“Good luck to you.”

As soon as the waitress walked away, the man rose from his chair and walked over.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you say that you’re a singer.” He pulled out the chair on the other side of her table. “Mind if I sit down?”

Shirley’s insides leaped so fast she almost flew off her chair. “Yes, I am a singer.” He was wearing a suit, like that fella that had almost run her down with his big red car. She peeked around the edge of the table. He wasn’t wearing boots, either. She wouldn’t hold that against him. Nodding at the chair so he’d go ahead and sit down, she added, “Been singing my entire life.”

The guy with the red car, his hair had been the color of sand; this fella’s was as dark as garden dirt. So were his eyes, and he had a pointed jaw. Made her wonder if it was on account he rubbed it so much. That’s what he was doing now. Rubbing his chin.

“Tell me about your experience,” he said, still rubbing his jaw.

“My experience?”

He smiled. “Yes. Singing. Where have you sung before?”

“Oh.” She waved a hand. Should have known that’s what he meant. “Everywhere. While cooking, cleaning, gardening, working in the barn, feeding the hogs. I just sing all the time. Have for as long as I can remember.”

“I see.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at her so hard she wanted to make sure her collar wasn’t flipped up or something. She was about to check when he gave a slight nod.

“Have you ever sung in front of people?” he asked.

“Oh, sure. Every Sunday I could make it to church.” Wanting him to know how good she was, she continued. “Folks there said I had the voice of an angel. Churches up over in Lincoln had me come sing at funerals whenever I could make it.”

“Lincoln?”

She nodded. “Lincoln.” The way he frowned said he might not know where that was, so she added, “Nebraska.”

“Oh, yes, Nebraska. I’ve heard of that.” He folded his arms across his chest. “How long have you been in California?”

“Since the train I just got off crossed the state line.” Her heart shot into her throat as he glanced at the door. Afraid he might leave, she asked, “Wanna hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Me sing.” Before he could say no, she drew in a deep breath and let the words flow. “Amazing grace, how sweet...”

She continued through the third verse, then, repeating the final line, she held on to the notes while letting her voice slowly fade away. Others back home liked how she’d always done that.

Folks here must, too, because everyone in the café was looking at her and clapping. Excitement fluttered inside her stomach. She smiled and nodded at them, and then turned her full attention to the man sitting at her table.

“That was very good,” he said when the clapping stopped.

“I know.” Folks had been telling her that for years. “That’s why I’m here.”

Smiling, he nodded. “What is your name?”

“Shirley. Shirley Burnette.”

“Well, Miss Burnette, I’m Roy Harrison.” He stretched a hand across the table. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance.”

She gave his hand a solid shake. “You, too, Mr. Harrison.”

He leaned back in his chair again. “Miss Burnette, I’d like to offer you the opportunity to audition for some people I know. I’m confident once they hear you, they will offer you a job.”

Her heart nearly stopped right then and there. At the exact same time happiness burst inside her. She’d never been so happy in her entire life. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she’d be jumping up and down like a baby bird learning to fly.

“Do you have accommodations?” Mr. Harrison asked.

Still trying to stay seated, for the excitement inside her was getting harder and harder to control, she held her breath for a moment. “Accommodations? You mean a place to stay?”

“Yes.”

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Well, Miss Burnette, I can help with that, too.”

Oh! Glory be! California is the place to be! Ain’t even—No, haven’t even been here a day and already have a job and a place to live. That guy in the red car might have been right about the boots and the jaywalking, but he sure was wrong about everything else.

* * *

Walter couldn’t get the sassy, country-bumpkin blonde woman out of his head. It had been over two weeks but she was still there. On his mind. He was worried about her. About where she ended up. He’d like to think she’d taken his advice and gone back home, but he highly doubted that. She was too determined to do anything that reasonable.

He’d known another woman like that, and she was dead. It had been four years now; the days had gotten easier, but other things, namely the guilt, had gotten worse. In hindsight, he would have done things differently. Given her the divorce she’d wanted. Maybe then Lucy would still be alive.

He’d been so determined, so set on having everything he’d wanted that he’d not taken the time to realize she hadn’t wanted the same thing. That their marriage had been destined to fail from the start.

That had been exactly what he hadn’t wanted to face.

Failure.

He’d failed once before with Theodore, and like it or not, ultimately, he’d failed with Lucy, too.

“Mr. Russell, do you not care for the beef?”

Walter glanced up, forced a smile to form for Mrs. McCaffrey. “No. I mean, the beef is fine. Excellent. I just find I’m not hungry this evening.”

The twinkle faded from her green eyes as her frown added more wrinkles to her usually jolly face. “I do hope you aren’t coming down with something.”

She was one in a million. Finding Mrs. McCaffrey was one of the things he had done right. She was the best housekeeper in the state, and he was lucky that she’d stuck with him through thick and thin. Her husband had died many years ago, and having no children, she’d dedicated herself to taking care of others. He’d hired her six years ago, before he and Lucy had gotten married, which had proven insightful on his end because Lucy had wanted nothing to do with housekeeping.

Of course she hadn’t. She’d been a star.

He muffled a sigh. “I’m fine. I just had a late lunch. I should have telephoned you, but the afternoon got away from me. I do apologize.”

Mrs. McCaffrey waved a hand and then lifted the serving dish holding several slices of roast beef off the table. “That’s nothing to apologize about. You’re a busy man. The most sought-after lawyer in all of Los Angeles. And this beef will keep just fine for tomorrow night.”

Walter nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be hungry tomorrow night.” He hadn’t had a late lunch; he just wasn’t hungry because his mind was on that girl from Nebraska. He hadn’t been back to that state since he’d left over ten years ago. Not that she was making him homesick. He hoped she was homesick, though, and that she had already gotten on an eastbound train.

It was all rather foolish and out of the ordinary for him to be so worried about a stranger. He’d met hundreds of young women over the years, and never thought twice about the decisions they made. Because those had been their decisions, just like the ones she made were hers—that woman from Nebraska with her short blond hair and big blue eyes.

She didn’t look like anyone he knew, nor did she remind him of someone, of anyone, so there really was no reason for his fixation.

Then again, he’d never almost run someone over before, either.

“Would you care for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee?” Mrs. McCaffrey asked, returning to the dining room.

“No, thank you.” He stood. “I have some work to finish.”

She pulled the serving spoon out of the potatoes and waved it at him. “You shouldn’t work so much. It’s not good for the soul.”

“Someday I won’t,” he said, just to placate her. In all honesty, there was nothing else for him to do. It was a good thing that his clients kept him busy. In more ways than one. Being a lawyer for the rich and famous was a time-consuming job, but also one that had created a bank account that was far beyond what he’d ever have imagined.

Money hadn’t been the reason he’d gone into this profession, but he certainly couldn’t complain over how profitable it had become.

He strolled out of the dining room and down the hall to his home office. The house was big, five bedrooms upstairs, and one downstairs—a suite of rooms—off the kitchen, which was where Mrs. McCaffrey lived. There were other rooms on the main floor, but other than the dining room and his office, he rarely entered them.

There had been a time when he’d imagined this house full of children. A family. A real family. That’s what he’d wanted. Why he’d bought this house. A family like the one he’d had before he’d become an orphan at the age of ten.

That had been eighteen years ago now. He could barely remember what his parents had looked like, but he remembered that they’d loved him. And his little brother, Owen. He remembered the storm, too, and the flash flood. Parts of it. Especially being so cold that he didn’t think he would ever warm up.

It had been that way at the orphanage, too. Cold. Bitterly cold. A few months before he’d turned sixteen, he and Theodore Grahams had decided they’d had enough of being cold, and enough of being farmed out as day laborers to people who expected orphans to work harder than anyone else, so they’d escaped. Hopped on a train, and rode it to the end of the rails.

That happened to be California, and that suited them both just fine.

They’d found work on the docks, and thought their futures were as bright as the sunshine. It had been, for a few months. Until Theodore, big for his age, got in a fight with another dockworker. A serious fight that changed both of their lives. The other dockworker died, drowned, and Theodore was charged with his death.

Walter argued it was self-defense when Theodore was arrested, only to be told to shut up or he’d be arrested, too. He hadn’t been about to shut up, and went to the police station, still arguing, trying to prove Theodore’s innocence. He was kicked out several times, and finally went to a lawyer, hoping for help.

Arthur Marlow hadn’t been willing to take on the case, not at first, but Walter hadn’t given up. He and Theodore had been as close as brothers, and he’d had to help him. Had to. With no money to pay the attorney, Walter begged Marlow to let him work off the fees to represent Theodore. Arthur eventually agreed and Walter had thought everything would work out perfectly.

It hadn’t.

The jangle of the phone pulled Walter out of the past. He entered his office and crossed the room.

Hope. That’s what that girl from Nebraska said she had. He’d had that once, too. So had Theodore.

Picking up the phone, Walter held the receiver to his ear and the mouthpiece to his mouth. “Hello.”

“Walter? Walter, that you?”

Instantly recognizing Sam Wharton’s voice, Walter answered, “Yes, Sam, it’s me. How are you this evening?”

“Good. Real good. I’m down at CB’s, and Tony Ebbert and I need some legal advice. Can you drive over here?”

Sam had been a client for years; the money he’d paid for assistance on business deals had nearly paid for Walter’s house.

Walter considered the request for a moment. Normally, he’d suggest a meeting in his office tomorrow, but an evening out could be exactly what he needed to get his mind off other things, including that girl from Nebraska, and on to things that mattered. “Sure, Sam. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Hee-haw!” Sam replied with his signature statement. “See you soon!”

Cartwright’s Basement would never be his first choice to visit. Known as CB’s, it was downtown, in the basement of the ten-story Cartwright building. The main level was a grocery store, the upper levels apartments, including a floor where the girls who worked at CB’s lived and used for alternate activities.

There were too many speakeasies like CB’s within the city to count and Walter had figured out long ago that some things a person just had to accept. Like them or not.

He grabbed his suitcoat, told Mrs. McCaffrey he was going out and walked out the back door and to the garage.

After opening the wide double doors, he climbed in the car and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life with so much power the seat shook. The car was a luxury. There hadn’t been anything wrong with his old one, except that he’d wanted a new one, and getting it had been easy, unlike some of the other things he’d wanted. Still wanted but continued to tell himself that he didn’t.

He backed the car out and onto the road, then grinned as he shifted into First and laid his foot on the gas pedal. The roadster was a dream to drive.

Morning, noon or night, traffic always rolled up and down the streets downtown, and Walter had to circle the block before he found a place to park. He climbed out, then took the sidewalk to the alley, where the entrance to CB’s was located.

The joint might be in the basement, but their secret had long been released. Everyone, including the police, knew where it was located and what went on in there, as well as hundreds of other places. In fact, there were just as many laws on the city books to protect the speakeasy owners as there were against prohibition. Federal agents didn’t have a hope in hell of upholding the laws Congress had passed.

Cigarette and cigar smoke swirled up the steps as he walked down them, and music echoed off the walls, as did joyous laughter and the murmur of conversations.

He entered the long and wide room full of tables and an elaborately carved wooden bar that ran the entire length of the back wall. A band played music at the far end, where people danced, and cigarette girls sashayed around the tables, wearing tight, short red dresses and carrying more than packs of cigarettes in the white wooden trays hooked around their necks with thick white straps.

Walter scanned the chairs, looking for Sam and Tony. He and Sam noticed each other at the same time. Sam stood, waved one of his long and gangly arms. Where he found shirts with sleeves that long had been the topic of more than one conversation.

Weaving his way toward Sam, Walter nodded and said hello to numerous people at various other tables. Some he knew well, others were mere acquaintances, and a few, he wouldn’t mind never seeing again.

“Hey, Walter. I ordered you a drink,” Sam said, his straw-colored hair sticking out from beneath the rim of his flat tweed hat. “The good stuff. Have a seat. You know Tony.”

“Thanks.” Walter took a seat and nodded at Tony. A redheaded heavyweight champion boxer who had a good chance at the world title this year. “Good seeing you, Tony. Congrats. Hear this could be your year.”

“It sure could,” Tony replied with a voice so low it had to come from the depths of his stomach.

The conversation bounced from boxing to cars, to the latest rumors, including who had financed the building of the new theater, and back to boxing. Walter had finished his drink during that time, and enjoying the camaraderie, he reached out to snag a cigarette girl so he could order another drink.

Catching one by the arm, he twisted to tell her, “I’d like another—”

The startled blue eyes looking down at him stopped his ability to speak. To think. Except for remembering her eyes looked exactly like they had when he’d rounded his car and saw her sitting on her butt on the pavement.

She tugged her arm out of his hold just like she had that day. “Another what?” she asked.

“Whatever you got on that tray, darling,” Sam said.

She kept her eyes averted as she set three drinks on the table and then spun around.

Walter jumped to his feet and followed. She stopped at the bar to refill her tray, and he stepped up beside her.

“What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low to not draw attention.

“Getting more drinks.” She set drinks of rotgut on her tray.

He firmly but gently turned her to face him. “I mean, what are you doing here? Working at CB’s?”

Her eyes snapped as she stepped back. “We can’t all start at the top, but we still gotta start or we won’t get anywhere.”

“What? This isn’t a start. It’s a dead end.” He meant that literally and pulled out his pocketbook. “If you need money for the train ride, I’ll give it to you. Right now.” He held out several bills. “Take it. Go back to Nebraska.”

She glanced around as if making sure no one was looking. He hoped that meant she’d finally come to her senses.

Settling her gaze on him, she asked, “What’s in that noggin’ of yours? Nothing? I don’t want your money, and I ain’t—am not going back to Nebraska.” She pulled several bills out from beneath an ashtray on her tray and handed them to the bartender.

Walter knew how these joints worked. The girls had to pay for the drinks on their trays, and then collect the money from the customers. Any spilled drinks or unpaid ones came out of their pockets, not the owners’. “You aren’t going to make enough money here—”

“Beat it,” she whispered fiercely. “And mind your own beeswax while you’re at it!” She spun in the other direction and marched off.

With a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, the bartender leaned across the bar. “That dame’s a closed bank, forget her. We got ones that are more...friendly. For a couple of clams, I’ll send one to your table.”

“No, thanks.” Walter walked back to his table and positioned his chair so he could keep an eye on the room. On her.

“You know that doll?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you?” Walter asked instead of answering.

“Never saw her before.” Sam looked at Tony. “You?”

Tony shook his head. “No, but Mel has a longer assembly line of girls than Ford does cars.”

Which was exactly why she shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t possibly know the dangers of working here. Walter’s back teeth clamped tight. If she was working here, she was living here. Upstairs. His blood ran cold at that thought.

Sam started explaining the reason he’d called. He and Tony wanted to put on a boxing exhibition show and needed advice on the legal side of things. Walter listened, and answered their questions, and kept one eye on the woman the entire time. He didn’t even know her name, so in his mind, started calling her Blondie.

She was still working the room, serving drinks, when Sam and Tony must have had all the information they needed from him, and called it a night. He bade them goodbye and stayed at the table, still keeping an eye on Blondie. Other girls had brought their table the drinks Sam and Tony had consumed. He was still nursing the only one she’d brought him. The ice had long ago melted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t drinking it. Just using the glass as something to twirl between his fingers.

There were no laws governing speakeasies; most were open twenty-four hours, and it was up to the owners what sort of hours the workers put in. Walter glanced at his wristwatch. Almost two-thirty in the morning. He hadn’t stayed up this late in years, but would sit right here until her shift ended.

A large portion of the patrons had long ago left. Some with cigarette girls on their arms as they walked out the doors; a few left in stumbling, ossified stupors, and others, like Sam and Tony, left alone, had simply been there to enjoy the nightlife but had jobs to go to in the morning.

So did he. Had to be at the courthouse by eight.

The room was almost empty by the time she made her way toward the bar with a full tray of drinks still strapped around her neck. He knew how that would play out. That the drinks would be dumped, and she’d be out the money for them. He stood and sidestepped, cutting her off before she made it to the bar.

“I’ll buy those.” He laid a bill on her tray, one that would pay for twice that many drinks.

Exhaustion showed on her face. He could understand why. She’d not only delivered drinks all night, she’d spent a fair share of time declining offers of more. More than once he’d wanted to grab her and haul her out of the door. The only thing that had stopped him was her. She’d handled herself well. That left him in a quandary. If he did haul her out of here and she came back, she’d get the wrath of Mel, the owner. If he didn’t, there would soon be a man she couldn’t fend off. Or worse.

“No.” She nodded toward his table. “You still have a drink, and I don’t need you or anyone else doing me any favors.”

“It’s not a favor.” He picked up a drink and downed it, nearly choking at the rotgut whiskey. If it hadn’t been so watered down, he wouldn’t have been able to swallow it. “I’m thirsty,” he said despite his burning throat.

“You’re...” She shook her head.

She thought he was crazy. He might be. “I’m Walter Russell,” he said. “Who are you?”

She huffed out a tired-sounding sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Take your money and leave.”

He took another drink off her tray. “Not until you tell me your name.”

She glanced around and then sidestepped to the table he’d sat at all night. There, she lifted the final four drinks off her tray and set them on the table. Tucking his bill beneath her ashtray, she nodded. “Enjoy your drinks, Mr. Russell.”

Walter grasped her arm, but the bartender, with yet another cigarette hanging out of his mouth, cleared his throat. The glare the man gave Walter said he’d be in charge of anything that happened from here on out.

That could include her leaving with him, for a price, Walter understood that. He also understood it wouldn’t be her choice. But she’d be expected to do whatever he wanted or she’d lose her job.

She, however, probably did not understand that.

Walter let that settle for a moment before he set the drink in his hand on the table and then pulled a calling card out of his suit pocket and laid it on her tray. He gave her and the bartender a nod before he turned about and left.

Every step got harder and harder to take, and by the time he was at the door, he was ripped right down the middle. She wasn’t his problem, but she had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.

He did, and would do something about it.