Ingenue by Jillian Larkin Page B

good-looking young man with dirty-blond hair picked out a slow tune on the grand piano.
    “It’s a ducky joint, ain’t it?” A lanky man stood at the foot of the stairs, holding a clipboard. He had a thin face with an almost comically long nose and small, muddy eyes. He was wearing an orange bowler and a red vest with orange polka dots.
    He smiled with a mouthful of crooked teeth. “You’re a little late, my dear.”
    “I’m sorry. When I scheduled the audition, the girl didn’t say anything about the furniture store, or how this is—”
    “A speakeasy?” The man tittered. “We try not to mention that if we can help it.” He stuck out his hand. “You’re … Zuleika, right?”
    “I am,” she said, shaking his hand. “Zuleika Rose.”
    “That’s a helluva strange name,” he replied.
    “Why, thank you!” Gloria had chosen it from a novel she’d read. She hoped he hadn’t read the same book. He didn’t seem the reading type.
    “They call me Spark,” he said, doffing his hat and sketching a little bow. “Welcome to the Opera House.” Spark sat down at one of the wooden tables. “The name’s new—we used to be called the Kennel Klub and a couple of other things before that. Brings in more customers every time we shut down and reopen.”
    “I like the walls,” Gloria said. Most of the clubs she’d visited didn’t care about decoration. Patrons came for two reasons: jazz and booze. They didn’t spend time studying the décor. But the murals here were totally jake—a reddened, stylized New York City, packed with skyscrapers and tiny figures rushing about. And the scarlet tint gave the speakeasy even more of a risky, dangerous feel. It looked like a swanky version of hell.
    Spark looked around as he lit a cigarette. “Oh, yeah, that was Vito, Puccini’s son. Puccini’s the guy who owns the place, and his son thinks he’s an artist, or some horsefeathers.” Spark picked up his clipboard. “I’ve gotta ask you a few questions before you go wail up there.” He pulled a pencil out from behind his ear. “Address?”
    “You can reach me care of Post Office Box One Sixty-Eight.”
    “I didn’t ask where I could reach you , I asked where you live. ”
    “Actually, you said ‘address.’ ”
    That seemed to fluster him. “I meant, where do you live?”
    Gloria forced a little laugh. She needed this job. “Oh, here in the city.”
    “Well, I didn’t think you took a steamboat to get here,” he said, tugging at his bow tie. He seemed nervous. “C’mon, darlin’, it’s not a tough question.”
    “I live uptown. Near Harlem,” Gloria replied. “It’s cheaper.”
    “That’s awful close to all them Negroes. You don’t mind? I wouldn’t feel safe, personally, and you’re just a little bit of a thing. Who knows, maybe you like the Negroes.”
    She could feel a blush spread over her cheeks. What kind of question was that? He was a creep. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied.
    Spark shrugged. He seemed to be looking behind Gloria rather than at her. “Don’t worry about it—no judgment here.”
    Gloria remained silent. There was something fishy about this guy.
    “Anyways,” Spark said with a frustrated groan, “Negroes make the best musicians. Duke Ellington and all that.” He pointed at the handsome pianist up on the stage. “The ones I seen are a hell of a lot better than that kid, let me tell you.” He cleared his throat. “You, uh, ever come across any fine black piano players?”
    “Never,” Gloria lied, hoping Spark didn’t ask many more questions. Most auditions, she just sang and got sent on her way.
    “Yeah, I guess you ain’t had much time. You look like you’re still in school. You strike me as the kind of dame who went to one of those bluenose prep schools.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    He glanced over her shoulder again. Gloria turned, trying to see what he was staring at, but saw only her own image in the mirror behind the bar.
    “Oh,