Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
My fingers still on the page. Betty had noticed more than I’d given her credit for. Had she suspected what I was? Surely not—humans don’t typically jump to “vampire” as an explanation for odd behaviors. Still, it makes me uneasy.
I flip ahead.
Oct. 20, 1946 – Lena helped me move into the boardinghouse. She carried my trunk up three flights of stairs like it was nothing! When I commented, she said she used to help her father with farm work. Maybe that explains her strength. Still, there’s something in her eyes sometimes. Like she’s seen things no one should see. Much older than her years. Sometimes I think there’s something almost magical about her. Mystical, even.
A chill runs through me. Betty had been observant—dangerously so. But she’d never confronted me, never questioned me directly. Just noted her observations with the careful attention to detail that made her a good writer.
And now a dead one.
I turn a few more pages, finding an entry that catches my eye:
Nov. 12, 1946 – Met Lena for drinks at The Lavender Room on Figueroa. The bartender, Vivian, kept making eyes at her all night. Can’t blame her. When I teased L about it, she just smiled that mysterious smile of hers. Said she “appreciates beauty in all its forms.” Another thing we have in common.
The Lavender Room. I’d forgotten about that place. A discreet establishment catering to women who prefer the company of other women. Betty had been fascinated by it, though more as an observer than a participant. I’d taken her there a few times when she wanted something different.
And now, seeing the address scrawled in the margin of her diary later on, I wonder if she’d continued going there without me. I knew the bartender well enough that I could at least ask. I don’t think the cops would know about this side of Betty at any rate. Might be worth checking out.
The telephone’s shrill ring startles me from my thoughts. I cross the room to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Marco’s voice, sharp with irritation.
“I called three times last night. You disconnect your phone or something?”
“I was home,” I say carefully. “I must have been sleeping.”
Truthfully, I pulled out the cord and read Betty’s diary, uninterrupted.
“Since when do you sleep so heavy?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “I need you at the club early tonight. Mickey’s bringing some business associates, wants you to do a private set.”
Business associates. A code phrase that could mean anything from legitimate investors to rival gangsters. I’ve learned not to ask questions.
“What time?”
“Seven. Wear the black dress with the gloves. The red one scares people.” He pauses. “And be on your best behavior. These are important people.”
“I’m always on my best behavior, Marco.”
“Sure you are, Red.” His tone softens marginally. “Listen, about Elizabeth…”
“I don’t want to talk about Betty,” I say sharply.
“Neither do I. But the cops might come around again. If they do—”
“I know what to say.” I’ve had this conversation with him before, about other incidents at the club. Keep it simple. See nothing, hear nothing, know nothing.
“Good girl.” He hangs up without saying goodbye, as usual.
I replace the receiver, my jaw tight with restrained anger. Marco treats me like a child, or worse, a pet. I sometimes wonder why I tolerate it, but the answers are simple: he’s good in bed and it’s a convenience. The Emerald Room gives me access to the job I want, the cover I require, and connections that keep me safe, on the surface level, at least. Marco is just the unpleasant price I pay.
We all have to pay something in this town.
Rain falls in a fine mist as I leave The Emerald Room later that night, the kind that doesn’t soak you immediately but eventually seeps through to your skin. The neon signs of the strip blur into watercolor smears, reflected in puddles on the sidewalk.
I’d performed my set as required, smiled at Mickey’s “business associates” who turned out to be some city councilmen on the take, and made my excuses to Marco. A headache, I’d claimed. He’d been displeased but distracted by the evening’s business to let me go without a fuss.
Now I hail a taxi and give the driver an address three blocks from The Lavender Room. I need to be discreet. If I’m seen there, Marco will hear that I’m in a “lezzie” bar and I’m sure I’ll get two black eyes in return.
The taxi drops me off, and I walk the remaining distance, my heels clicking on the wet pavement, darkness settling around me like a comfortable cloak. The Lavender Room is housed in a nondescript building with no exterior signage, just a purple door and a small window with the curtains drawn at the back of the building. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past it.