Kate woke to sunlight streaming through the window and jazzy piano music in the distance. She sat up, squinting at the drab little room with its dusty dresser and sagging curtain.
Not the least bit frightening.
Every morning, she woke up ashamed of her fear of the dark, vowing to conquer it—or at least do a better job of hiding it. Last night, she’d failed on both counts.
Her slim skirt had crawled up to her waist, and she reached back to unzip it, angry at herself for sleeping in her clothes.
Her hands froze.
Rumbling male voices drifted from the kitchen. Her gaze darted to the open door, but from this angle, all she could see was the wall of the hallway. She stood and quickly tugged down her hemline, then tiptoed to the door and shut it.
Her empty stomach twisted at the smell of pancakes, but that would have to wait.
She sat back on the bed, opened her notebook, and flipped to yesterday’s list—October 9, 1938. She should have reviewed it last night, but did so now, placing a tidy checkmark next to the tasks she’d completed. Two tasks remained undone: Unpack (which was just as well); and Calculus page 27 (not for lack of trying; she’d spent hours on the train staring at derivatives).
She turned the page and wrote: October 10, 1938
1. Calculus page 27. The third day in a row she’d written that page—a small failure.
2. Check newspaper for San Francisco weather. She usually checked the forecast in the evening newspaper, before laying out her clothes for the next day. Another missed step.
3. Check train schedule to San Francisco. Hopefully, there’d be something leaving around noon. She tapped the end of the pencil against her teeth, wondering if she dared board a train before receiving a money order from Aunt Lorna.
Kate pulled out her wallet and counted eighty-three dollars. Plenty to get home—the train ticket here had cost seventeen—but a decent hotel would be about fifteen a night, plus food, plus taxis to get to school. She jotted figures on the reverse page and decided her money would only last three days.
She couldn’t leave until she’d heard from Aunt Lorna, which might mean another night in this place, but she could survive that.
In daylight, everything felt possible.
She managed to slip into the laundry room without having to face anyone and opened her suitcase to find everything rumpled and creased. She’d never ironed before. She decided on a dress with striped fabric that hid the wrinkles.
In the bathroom mirror, she looked reassuringly like herself. A lock of reddish-brown, shoulder-length hair had ended up on the wrong side of her part, and she pulled it back. Most of her friends had to sleep in curlers, but her own hair was naturally wavy. She leaned closer and decided her summer freckles were finally fading. Then stood back to see if her figure had developed any curves overnight. Still lean and straight.
Sometimes she longed for the striking beauty of her friend Susan, but most days she was content with being, as Aunt Lorna put it: Quite attractive without being showy about it.
She squared her shoulders and whispered to her reflection two things she knew to be true and two things she wanted to be true. Some days she got creative, but today she stuck to the standard list.
“I am smart. I am sensible. It wasn’t my fault. I am not afraid.”
Dr. Gimble had reeked of cigar smoke and had cat hair on his sofa, but he’d given her this. As Dr. Gimble had put it, all the soothing words in the world wouldn’t help if Kate didn’t believe them herself.
Today, she repeated the final want with a little more conviction. “I am not afraid.”
She showered and dressed and emerged from the bathroom eager for breakfast.
The kitchen table was cluttered with dirty dishes and orange peels, with two untouched pancakes on a plate in the middle. Kate thought the room was deserted, then noticed a pair of khaki legs sticking out from under the sink, with the mangy dog beside them. Hugo’s voice drifted out, muffled and slightly off-key. “It dooon’t meant a thing … if it aaain’t got that swing. Doo-wah, doo-wah, doo-wah, doo-wah.”
A smile crept up on her.
Hugo slid out from under the sink but didn’t notice her as he dropped a wrench into a toolbox and dug for something else. He looked less like a killer in daylight, but still like trouble. Like the good-looking boy who’d worked at the gas station near her private school, making all the clean-cut girls of Blakely Academy flirt like fools as he’d washed their windshields—until he’d been arrested for stealing car parts and never seen again.
Hugo noticed her and his humming faded. “Morning,” he said a bit warily, and she remembered that he’d probably read her telegram.
“I forgot to pay you last night.” She went to her room and returned with two dollars.
But when she held them out, he didn’t take them. “It was only seventy-eight cents.”
She took away one of the bills. “Keep the change.”
Hugo frowned but took the dollar.
Reuben entered the kitchen, short and bald, his scowl deepening as he looked at the table. “Those pigs. They didn’t leave a single orange. I’m the one who got them.”
“Stole them, he means,” Hugo told Kate. “Neighbor’s tree.”
Reuben scraped back a chair and sat. “The rich don’t own the earth. They let their fruit rot on the ground while the working class starves. That’s the problem with this country—sheer greed. And the people in this house are no better. There were seven of those oranges.”
“See, Figs, that’s the problem with being the only communist in the house.” Hugo stood and set the toolbox on the counter. “You’re morally obligated to share everything you have, while we capitalists get to take anything we can get our hands on.”
“Food is shared equally. That’s the arrangement.” Reuben stabbed a fork into one of the two remaining pancakes and plopped it onto an already-used plate.
“Are you really a communist?” Kate asked, fascinated.
“Well, I don’t go to meetings or anything, but I’ve read stuff, and I’m sick of the rich thinking they’re better than everybody else.” His eyes narrowed on Kate. “People in fancy clothes who don’t do a lick of work, just happened to be born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”
Kate felt stung for a second but quickly rallied. “As we’ve already established, if I had a silver spoon, I wouldn’t be here right now, I’d be eating breakfast at the Huntington Hotel—with oranges.” She saw Reuben reaching for the last pancake and quickly lowered her hand on top of it. “That one is mine. As Marx would say, ‘to each according to his needs,’ and I need that pancake.”
Hugo whistled. “Careful, Figs, I think you just found your match.”
“Captain of my debate team last year.” Kate considered the pancake and decided to eat it straight off the serving plate, which looked relatively clean. She pulled the plate closer and sat. “No hard feelings, Reuben?”
“He doesn’t have any feelings,” Hugo pointed out.
“Are you kidding?” Reuben hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “Finally—someone who can talk about something besides auditions and fourth walls. Do you really know about Marx?”
“Not really. I got an A in my government class, but I get A’s in all my classes. I don’t suppose there’s a clean fork around here?”
Hugo opened a drawer.
“Why do you keep calling him Figs?” Kate asked as she took the fork.
“Reuben Feigenbaum.” Hugo leaned back against the counter. “A name no casting director would forget, but he thinks Jim Anderson is more distinctive.”
“Charles Kensington,” Reuben said, sawing the side of his fork into his pancake. “I changed it last week.”
“Right.” Hugo’s eyebrows lifted. “Because you’re a perfect fit for all those yachting, lord-of-the-manor roles.”
Kate reached for the syrup, studying Hugo from beneath her eyelashes. Eighteen, she guessed. This morning, his nice shoulders were covered by a short-sleeved shirt, and his almost-black hair had a freshly washed sheen to it. Maybe he’d cleaned up for her.
His gaze shifted to Kate and she looked away.
“So, Reuben, you’re an actor too?” She poured syrup. “I thought you were a musician, the way you played the violin.”
He speared a wedge of pancake with his fork. “There’s no work for musicians anymore. The music is all canned.” He looked at her, the fork dangling. “I’m a bookkeeper, really, until this nitwit convinced me to quit my job and go into acting. So now I’m as broke as he is.”
“Less deadly than that number-crunching job,” Hugo said.
“Unless I starve to death.” Reuben shoved the fork into his mouth.
Kate sensed more to the story. “How can a bookkeeping job be deadly?”
Reuben and Hugo exchanged a look. “Go ahead,” Reuben said around a mouthful. “Ollie’s gonna tell her anyway.”
“Reuben used to count money for the wrong people, at this nightclub called the Galaxy. Then his boss got arrested, and Reuben had to go into hiding because he knows where all the bodies are buried.”
“Hey,” Reuben griped.
“Sorry, figure of speech—where all the money is laundered. So now the feds are parked outside Reuben’s apartment with a bunch of questions. But if he talks to them, his boss’s thugs will drop him off a dark pier. So he can’t go home until the case is dropped.”
“Which it will be,” Reuben said. “He owns the judge.”
“So, Reuben came here to hide out for a while.”
It sounded like a gangster movie. Kate looked from Hugo to Reuben. “Are you making this up?”
Reuben swallowed. “Sadly, no. I’ve been stuck in this asylum for five months with this nitwit dragging me to auditions.”
Hugo shrugged. “I told him there’s no better place to hide than Hollywood. I’ve been going to casting calls for two years, and I’m completely invisible.”
“Yeah, and it’s depressing as hell.” Reuben took another bite.
“One phone call, Figs, and your whole life will change. Those studios are made of money.” The dog whimpered, and Hugo crouched to scratch its ears. “How’d that audition go yesterday? I forgot to ask.”
Reuben talked out of the corner of his mouth. “Said I’m too bald.”
“Tell them you’ll wear a wig.”
“And too short.”
“Tell them you can be taller. It’s war out there, Figs. You gotta fight for it.”
“For what? One line that barely feeds me for a week?” Reuben ran his thumb along the scar on his cheek. “Nobody wants this.”
“Sure they do, they just don’t know it yet. That scar is your gold mine. I’ll bet Peter Lorre got loads of rejection before someone saw dollar signs in those creepy eyes of his, and now he’s a big star.” Hugo’s fingers dug into the mangy fur, making the dog’s leg twitch. “That phone call is coming, Figs, and when it does, I’m tagging along for the ride.”
“Sure. You can be my chauffeur.” Reuben huffed a laugh.
Kate took another bite, her gaze lingering on Hugo as he played with the dog. His khakis were wearing through at the knees and his brown shoes looked ancient, separating from the soles. “So, Hugo … you’ve been acting for two years?”
He glanced up with a wry smile. “If you can call it acting when all I do is stand outside doors hoping to get noticed. This play is my first paying job—besides the Galaxy, I mean. I quit that when I got the play.”
The nightclub with a boss in prison and thugs who dropped people off piers. “You worked there too?”
“Scrubbing dishes. I like nighttime work, so I can go on auditions during the day.” He laughed. “Not that I go on many of those. Mostly, I just stand outside talent agency doors, hoping someone notices me. And they don’t.”
It all sounded rather … bumbling to Kate. Not a very efficient way of becoming a movie star. “Maybe you could work as an extra until you get a big part. You know—one of those actors who walks around in the background.”
Reuben barked a laugh. “Sure, Hugo, why don’t you be an extra?”
Hugo stood, giving her a patient smile. “You have to go through Central Casting, and they already have more actors than they can use. Like, ten thousand more. They don’t sign anyone new unless you know someone.”
“Well … you know Oliver Banks.”
Reuben barked another laugh.
Kate’s face warmed. What did she care? She was leaving today.
Lemmy sauntered into the kitchen, wearing a pinstripe suit, his hat tipped at a jaunty angle. He was a little older than she’d thought the night before—early twenties, maybe. He appraised Kate in return with a sly smile. “You’re looking all fresh and pretty this morning. Guess sleeping in the servants’ quarters suits you.”
Kate stopped chewing, unsure if she’d just been insulted or complimented.
Hugo said with dislike, “What do you want, Lemmy?”
He wiggled an envelope. “Telegram for Miss Katherine Hildebrand.”
Kate stood, her chair screeching back. She walked around the table.
“Not so fast. I tipped the delivery boy, so now you gotta tip me. Lucky for you, I accept kisses.” Lemmy winked, tapping his cheek.
Kate halted a step away. “I’m afraid my kisses are worth more than that. This will have to do.” She held out the extra dollar Hugo hadn’t taken.
Lemmy reached for it, but Hugo got there first, snatching the dollar and the telegram. “Don’t be an ass, Lemmy.” He handed them to Kate.
Lemmy grinned. “Can’t blame a boy for trying.”
Kate itched to open the telegram, but not in front of them.
“You delivered it, now scram,” Reuben said.
“Sure, I’m going.” But Lemmy didn’t move, pulling a pack of Wrigley’s from his jacket pocket. “On my way to visit Moe this morning before visiting hours are over. Thought you might want to tag along, Uncle Reuben, tell Moe what you’ve been up to lately.” He smirked, unwrapping a stick of gum. “Or maybe I should tell him for you.”
Reuben glowered. “He’s Mr. Kravitz to you.”
“Not since he told me I’m like a son to him. You broke his heart when you quit the club, Uncle Reuben, but he’s got me now, and I’ve got my eye on things.” Lemmy tapped his temple.
“I am not your uncle,” Reuben seethed.
“Sure you are. Your ugly sister married my dad. That makes us family.”
Reuben scraped back his chair and stood, his hand tight around his fork. Kate gasped and stepped back, but Lemmy only looked amused, sliding the gum between his teeth.
“Beat it, Lemmy,” Hugo said, the dangerous rasp in his voice coming through.
“Sure, I’m going. Don’t want to miss visiting hours.” He laughed as he left the room.
The air seemed to leave with him, Reuben’s anger fizzling into a defeated scowl.
“Ignore him,” Hugo said.
Reuben pointed his fork at Hugo. “Fifteen years, I work for Moe Kravitz. We have a certain respect between us—a certain understanding—and that punk comes along—”
“Forget him.”
“The only reason he even got that job is because I recommended him—on account of my sister—before I knew what a louse he was—and now he thinks he can turn Moe against me? He better watch his back.”
“Hey,” Hugo warned, glancing at Kate.
Her heart raced, but she was also a bit fascinated, following along as best she could. “So … this Moe Kravitz is your boss at the nightclub who’s in prison? And Lemmy has your old bookkeeping job?”
Reuben’s eyes narrowed on her. “Better watch what I say around this one.”
“Yeah, she’s smart,” Hugo said dryly.
“Does my grandfather know he has two gangsters living with him?”
Hugo folded his arms. “Reuben quit that life. He’s an actor now.”
As if that were so much better. Reuben unemployed. Hugo working in some back-alley horror show. Both of them mooching cheap lodgings off her grandfather. But it was no business of hers. She looked at the envelope in her hand.
“Guess that’s your money order,” Hugo said. “So you can leave today.”
Reuben looked from Hugo to Kate. “Leave? I thought you were going to live here now.”
“Changed her mind. Doesn’t like the unsavory boarders.” So he had read her telegram. “You better tell Ollie. He was like a kid on Christmas this morning, talking about you. I had to hold him back from waking you up.”
The thought of her grandfather grinning over her bed didn’t entice her to stay, but it did prick her conscience. “Well … maybe I can leave tomorrow. That gives us one day together. He can show me the sights of Hollywood.”
Reuben gave a short laugh. “Slight problem with that.”
Hugo shot him a warning look.
“What?” Kate asked. “Doesn’t he drive? I can drive if he has a car.”
“Ollie doesn’t leave the house,” Reuben said. “Not a foot out the door in the whole time I’ve been here—or the two years Hugo’s been here. Except the backyard and only if it’s dark.”
Kate frowned, remembering the striped pajamas worn an hour or two before bedtime. “Why doesn’t he leave the house?”
Reuben shrugged. “Doesn’t want people to see that he’s old, I guess.”
She gave a startled laugh. “That’s ridiculous. Nobody expects him to stay young forever.”
“Actually, they do,” Hugo said. “Say the name Oliver Banks, and everyone knows the face. Only problem is, they’re picturing Captain Powell, who never ages. As long as Ollie stays inside this house, he’s still Captain Powell. Step outside, and those days are over. Step outside, and Ollie loses himself.”
Reuben smirked. “Very deep, Dr. Quick.”
It all sounded absurd to Kate. “Well, he can’t spend the rest of his life in this house. I’ll get him outside. I’ll tell him we only have one day together, and he has to take me sightseeing. Where is he?”
“In his office looking at your baby pictures,” Hugo said.
Kate felt a twist of guilt. She made her way toward the door leading to the rest of the house.
“Say hello to Boots for me,” Reuben called after her.
She looked back. “Who is Boots?”
Reuben only laughed.