Thirty-Three

Kate and I decided to attend the impersonator show once again. This time, I vowed to have a conversation with the Madonna entertainer. I figured she was my caller, and I needed to learn what she meant by implying that the Harlow look-alike’s father was responsible for her death.

We stopped in a nearby bar for a few drinks before the show. Kate plopped herself onto a bar stool and I stood next to her, leaning on the bar. She wore a crimson pantsuit with lips to match, and thick gold chains and drooping earrings.

The bartender took her in. “What can I do for you?” he asked, hands on the bar.

“I’d like a diet coke and JD.” Kate flipped her hair back.

“I’ll take a Guinness. Do you have some on tap?”

He nodded in my direction, but his eyes never left Kate. “Sure thing.”

“So, do you expect this woman to know anything at all about Harlow?”

“If she’s the one who called me, she definitely knows something. Any little piece at this point would help.”

The bartender set our drinks in front of us. Two more people sauntered up to the bar and he moved in their direction.

Kate grunted. She probably was remembering her own father and the beating she took when she told him she was getting the operation. She’d showed up at my door, half dead. It sickened me to remember it. Even now. Even after all these years. He was enraged so much about his son’s gender that he beat the living shit out of him.

“I think about my father sometimes,” she said. This surprised me, because Kate didn’t like to talk about him. “I wonder if he ever regrets his actions.”

“I’m sure he does.” I lifted the Guinness to my lips, downing the thick, bitter liquid as the foam kissed my mouth. Our families had assumed Kate and I would get married, even when we both knew that wasn’t the case—we were simply best friends of different genders. Why was that so hard for people to understand?

She shrugged and sipped from her drink. “I’m not considering him tonight. Let’s think about getting answers from Madonna.”

I lifted my glass. “Damn straight!”

As I drank, a weird sensation crept up my back, as if someone was behind me. I set my drink down and turned to see Severn Hartwell—Justine’s biggest competitor, the man who’d followed me onto the subway. He sneered. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. My body tensed.

Kate was looking in the other direction. But the bartender headed our way.

“Hey, what can I get you?”

Hartwell paused. “Nothing now. I didn’t realize you let scum like this broad in the place.”

“What?” I turned toward him. “Get lost, Hartwell.”

Kate’s attention zoomed in on him.

“What gives, mister?” the bartender said.

Hartwell grabbed me by the shoulders—so hard I swear every vertebrae in my neck jammed. A rush of focused anger moved through me and, without planning it, my knee jabbed into his groin and he yowled, crouching into a ball.

A large man headed our way. Must be the bouncer. Kate grabbed Hartwell and shoved him into the large man. “This guy attacked my friend!”

“What a bitch!” Hartwell said between labored breaths as the bouncer dragged him off.

The air buzzed around us for a few minutes, and then a calm came over the place. The bartender set two more drinks in front us. “On the house, ladies.” He grinned one of the widest I’d ever seen.

“Who the hell was that?” Kate asked, after thanking the bartender.

“That was Severn Hartwell. Another biographer. He wanted to write the definitive biography of Jean Harlow. Justine got the exclusive book deal. No other publisher would touch him. So he’s throwing a hissy fit. Followed me onto the train one day.”

“Oh,” Kate said. “I remember.” She shrugged again. “So why doesn’t he write about someone else? Greta Garbo? Chaplin? Seems like there’s a lot of stars to pick from.”

“A few months ago, I would’ve agreed. But like Justine said, this biography brought out all the Harlow kooks.”

Kate laughed. “Who knew?”

“Right?” The absurdity of the situation grabbed hold of me as I finished my first stout and moved on to the second. I found myself laughing too.

“This is not funny,” Kate said with a sobering quality. “You’ve been chased, threatened, and stalked.”

“Yeah. It’s not funny at all.” I took a sip from the new glass of Guinness, my hands trembling.

“Hey, where’d you learn to kick like that, anyway?” Kate smiled.

She knew perfectly well where I’d learned to kick. My gram taught all the girls on the island how to defend ourselves.

Adrenaline coursed through me and my hand still trembled as I lifted the glass to my mouth again. I’d never put into practice any of my gram’s self-defense moves. I always theorized that if I were attacked, I wouldn’t have the presence of mind to remember to kick a man in the groin. But damn, it was a reflex I didn’t know I possessed.

“A lady never divulges her secrets.” I licked the foam from my mouth.

Later, Kate and I sat at our table at the club. The atmosphere, once again, bristled with energy and excitement. Fifteen minutes until show time. Last time I’d waited until about halfway through the performance. But tonight I couldn’t wait. I excused myself and headed for the backstage door once again.

The guard stopped me. It was a different guard, which was a good thing. I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I wanted a smooth entry and exit.

I showed him my press pass and he motioned me through. I walked down the long gray halls to the doors with names painted on them. I tapped on the door that read “Madonna.”

“Okay!” she yelled. “I’m almost ready.”

I knocked again.

“Jesus!” She opened the door in a huff. For a brief flick of a moment, I swore Madonna herself was standing in front of me. “You again? Does Sal realize you’re here?”

“No. Can I come in?” I looked both ways and didn’t see Sal Mendo coming. I moved forward.

She pressed her hand on my chest, stopping me. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here. But I’ve got nothing to add to what I’ve already said, okay?”

“Did you call me the other night?” I asked. Madonna’s eyebrows gathered; her arms folded. “Because the Jean Harlow impersonator is dead. Probably was murdered. If you knew her and have any information—”

The Madonna impersonator pushed me hard, and I landed on my ass with an embarrassing, painful thud. Then she slammed the door and locked it.

“Go away!” she yelled. “Just leave me alone or I’ll call the cops!”

Fuck. Every instinct within me told me Madonna might know something, and that she was the one who’d called. But it was obvious she wasn’t interested in talking. And if I pressed it, it might spark more attention.

I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out another card, and slid it beneath her door.