Chapter 3 — Chapter 03

Malone sent for me the next afternoon.

His office was above the speakeasy, up a narrow staircase that creaked in a specific pattern depending on which steps you took. I knew the pattern. I also knew that Malone had someone watching those stairs every night, counting the creaks, knowing exactly who was coming and going.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Malone." I didn't sit down until he gestured to the chair. Patrick Malone was a big man, broad shoulders and thick hands, but he moved quietly for his size. He'd been a boxer in his youth, and he still had the way of standing that said he could move fast if he needed to.

"Rose." He didn't smile. Malone never smiled when he was about to tell you something you didn't want to hear. "You're one of my best girls. You know that."

"I try to be, sir."

"You keep your mouth shut. You don't see things you shouldn't see. You don't ask questions." He steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk. "That's why I'm going to tell you this once, and then we're never going to talk about it again."

I waited.

"The woman who's been coming in — Eleanora Vance. She's going to keep coming in. You're going to keep singing. And nothing happened last week. You understand me? Nothing happened. The man at table four had a heart attack. Very sad. Very unexpected. But that's all it was."

My throat was dry, but my voice came out steady. "I didn't see anything, Mr. Malone."

"I know you didn't." His eyes held mine, and I saw something in them that might have been sympathy, or might have been a warning. "But she's not sure. And when people like her aren't sure, they tend to... make sure. You follow?"

I followed. I followed all too well.

"I'm a valuable employee," I said carefully. "I bring in customers. I'm reliable. I've been with you for two years."

"You are. You have. And I'd hate to lose you." Malone's voice was gentle in a way that wasn't comforting at all. "But I can't protect you from this, Rose. No one can. The only protection you've got is being useful and being quiet. You understand the difference?"

"Useful means I make money for the house. Quiet means I don't make problems."

"Smart girl." He leaned back. "Now. Ms. Vance has asked to meet with you. Tonight, after your set. She'll be at table four. You'll sit with her, have a drink, be pleasant. And you'll convince her that you're not a problem."

"And if I can't convince her?"

Malone's expression didn't change. "Then you're a problem. And I told you what happens to problems."

---

I went back to my apartment to think.

Malone thought he was giving me an ultimatum. And he was, in a way. But he'd also given me something more valuable: information.

Eleanora Vance was worried. If she wasn't worried, she wouldn't need to meet with me. She wouldn't have broken into my apartment to rattle me. She would have just... done whatever she was going to do.

But she hadn't. She was being careful. She was taking time. That meant she couldn't just make me disappear without consequences.

The question was: what kind of consequences?

I sat at my vanity and started writing. Not a letter, exactly — more like instructions. I wrote down everything I knew about the man at table four. His face, his clothes, the way he'd watched Eleanora Vance. The way she'd taken his table like she owned it. The way Malone's boys had carried something out wrapped in a tablecloth.

I wrote about the dark-haired woman who came in twice a month, always alone, always left alone, and the men who bought her drinks who never seemed to leave at all.

I wrote about my apartment, the things that had been moved, the message someone had left without leaving a message.

Then I wrote what I wanted done if anything happened to me. The letter should go to the police, to the newspapers, to anyone who'd listen. A singer at Malone's speakeasy who'd seen too much and paid the price.

It wasn't much. I knew it wasn't much. But it was something.

I sealed the envelope and wrote a single name on the front: Danny.

He was sweet on me. Had been for months. He'd do what I asked, if it came to that. And if it didn't come to that — well, then I'd just ask him to burn it, and he wouldn't ask questions.

That was the insurance policy. Not much, but better than nothing.

Now I just had to survive the meeting.