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VERA
Fashion kills.
Crouching for long periods of time was never fun, but doing it in patent-leather T-strap heels was murder. Vera usually tried to wear more comfortable shoes when she was following someone, but there'd been no time to change. She'd been working at the Green Mill when she'd overheard Carlito Macharelli mention a meeting on the docks with Sebastian Grey.
She'd immediately called a cab.
"Follow that car!" she'd ordered the driver.
A normal cabbie would never put himself at her disposal for this sort of activity--a black girl? Telling a cabdriver to follow a wealthy white man?--but Wally was not a normal cabbie. He was that rarity: a black man with his own taxi and license. He was a family friend and happy to help her clear her brother's name. "Jerome is like the son I wish I'd never had," Wally liked to say. Most nights, he waited outside the Green Mill until she was done with her shift to take her home.
Tonight they followed the taillights of Carlito's Rolls-Royce all the way through downtown and to the docks--a place Vera usually avoided. This area was dangerous. Vera already worked in a Mob-run speakeasy; she didn't need the added threat of being around when the gangsters unloaded the hooch.
She asked Wally to let her out a block behind where Carlito parked the Rolls in the vacant lot. The hulking shadows of ships loomed to the east, but here the docks were still and silent.
Vera edged close to the Rolls, dodging from shadow to shadow until at last she found a hiding place behind a stack of tied-up crates. Already, there was Bastian Grey--she could see his smug features as he lit a butt from his silver cigarette case. He ambled out on the pier and stood smoking, staring out at the water.
She was sweltering on this warm summer night, thanks to her black, knee-length trench coat, but Bastian looked at ease in the heat, irritatingly handsome in a brown suit, his cheeks freshly shaven, his dark hair slicked back and parted. He was a looker, that much Vera couldn't deny.
"What do you want?" Carlito called out as he walked up, the lights from the pier warehouse catching his gray pinstriped suit and black fedora.
Carlito was her boss and had once employed her brother, Jerome, as the piano player at the Green Mill. But then Carlito and Tony Pachelli, one of his goons, had tried to kill Jerome. And Gloria, Bastian's high-society fiancee, had shot Tony dead. And then Gloria and Vera's brother had had to flee Chicago to save their lives.
And it was all Vera's fault.
Vera had been the one feeding Bastian information about Jerome and Gloria. Vera had been the one determined to break up their secret affair. Just because Vera hadn't known that Bastian was telling everything to Carlito didn't mean she was any less guilty.
That was why Vera was here, crouched behind a stack of crates, hoping to learn something incriminating about Carlito and Bastian--something she could use to barter for her brother's life.
"What do I want?" Bastian flipped his cigarette in a bright arc across the lot. "You're the one who told me to meet you here."
Carlito stepped backward. "No, I didn't."
"Secret notes and midnight meetings." Bastian walked a few steps away. "I'm tired of your little games, Macharelli." Only a young man as despicable as Bastian Grey could work with mobsters and show a proud distaste for them at the same time.
"This isn't a game," Carlito said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. "And I didn't send you a note. That means someone else did."
"Don't be absurd," Bastian said, lighting another cigarette. "Why would anyone go to the trouble of dragging us out here?"
Vera was leaning forward to hear better when she felt a hand crawl over her mouth. "What are you playing at?" a woman's voice whispered.
She wanted to struggle against the stranger's hold, but she couldn't give herself away. She felt herself being turned around to face her attacker.
Vera stared into the eyes of Maude Cortineau, Carlito's moll. When Maude had been a flapper, she'd barely paid attention to anyone outside her glamorous inner circle. Since she'd gotten with Carlito, she stuck to his side and spoke only when she was spoken to.
"I'm trying to eavesdrop," Vera whispered back. If Maude had been planning to bust her, she would've done it already.
"Shut up, Vera," Maude hissed. "I was waiting in the car, and I saw you running around behind these crates like you didn't have a care in the world. If Carlito sees you, you're in deep trouble. Don't be an idiot. You don't want to end up like me."
After dropping out of her bluenose prep school, Maude had become the queen of the Chicago flapper scene. Sequins, feathers, gold lame--she wore it all. Her makeup was always flawless and her headband always settled perfectly over her blond bob.
But now her beaded red dress hung over her bony body like a burlap sack. Deep shadows lurked underneath her kohl-rimmed eyes. Carlito had sucked the life out of her: The flame that Maude had once been famous for had been snuffed out.
"Maude! Where the hell are you?" Carlito called from the other side of the crates.
"Just be smart and hide," Maude said, clacking away in her heels, back to Carlito's Rolls. Carlito was pacing by the car as Maude ambled up, smoking a cigarette. She was the perfect portrait of boredom.
Carlito banged his fist on the hood. "I told you to stay in the car!"
Maude dropped the practically new cigarette. "I wanted a ciggy," she replied in a soft, defeated voice. "I know how you don't like anyone to smoke in your car, Daddy."
"Get in," he said. "We gotta go, and fast. This is a setup."
"You're being silly, Macharelli!" Bastian shouted. "No one is after us!"
But Carlito ignored him. He slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and sped off with a squeal of tires.
Vera let herself relax against the crates, leaning out to check on Bastian. How could she have been so stupid as to ever trust him? Those eyes, she thought. When she'd first met Bastian, his green eyes had seemed sincere--swoony, even. Arrogant, of course, but that was to be expected from a rich white boy like him. She hadn't realized the heartless steel his irises really concealed until she'd accused him of sending a man to kill Jerome and he'd just smiled and called her "silly, stupid Vera."
And in all honesty, that was exactly what she was.
Vera opened her purse and felt the comforting, cool metal of Bastian's pistol inside. She'd carried it often since she'd found it at Gloria's feet that night. Bastian certainly didn't know it was his own gun that had killed the gangster, that his own fiancee had pulled the trigger.
Vera had never used a gun before, but if a dame like Gloria could use one, then so could she. Vera loved Jerome every bit as much as Gloria did, and would go just as far, if not further, to protect him.
She snapped the purse shut and looked back toward the docks.
Footsteps, approaching from the other side of the dockyard. The figure wore a long black overcoat and a hat with a wide brim. Vera watched the person walk down the pier.
"Sebastian Grey?" Vera was shocked to hear the voice of a woman.
Bastian turned from the water. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure--"
"Skip the formalities. I'm looking for Macharelli. And the piano player, Jerome Johnson."
"Do I look like their keeper?" Bastian breathed out a cloud of cigarette smoke, and then his face brightened. "You're too pretty a woman to be chasing after trash like Carlito. But if you must know, he took off a minute ago."
The woman made a swift movement, and Bastian raised his hands in surrender. "Where to?" she demanded. "And where's the piano player?"
"No need for guns," Bastian said, slowly backing up. "Carlito went home. And Johnson? No one knows where he disappeared to. He sent his kid sister a postcard from a post office box in New York, but that's been a dead end so far."
"Thank you," the woman said. "You've been most helpful."
Then Vera heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Two.
Instinctively, she cowered, knocking her heavy purse against the crates.
The killer turned at the noise, her features hidden by shadow. All Vera could see was the silver pistol, pointed directly at her.
The third gunshot in as many minutes rang out over Lake Michigan.
The bullet slammed into a wooden crate so close to her head that Vera felt splinters hit her face. She didn't wait for another bullet. She just turned and ran.
It wasn't far to the edge of the dockyard, and the wall of crates was between Vera and the shooter. But Vera was wearing heels, and she'd never been able to run in heels.
Until now.
She waited for the crack of the gunshot and the bullet in her back as she crossed the lot, as she turned and ran the block to Wally's cab, as she banged on the window to wake him from his nap.
"What's the rumpus?" he said as she clambered into the backseat.
"Drive!" she said. "As fast as you can."
Wally didn't need to be told twice. He turned the key, gunned the engine, and took off.
When he dropped her at the club, it was already locked up for the night, but that didn't slow her down: She fumbled through her purse, found Jerome's old keys, and slipped the brass master into the lock.
Whoever the killer was, she wouldn't miss the next time.
From the Hardcover edition.
Revue de presse :
VERA
Fashion kills.
Crouching for long periods of time was never fun, but doing it in patent-leather T-strap heels was murder. Vera usually tried to wear more comfortable shoes when she was following someone, but there'd been no time to change. She'd been working at the Green Mill when she'd overheard Carlito Macharelli mention a meeting on the docks with Sebastian Grey.
She'd immediately called a cab.
"Follow that car!" she'd ordered the driver.
A normal cabbie would never put himself at her disposal for this sort of activity--a black girl? Telling a cabdriver to follow a wealthy white man?--but Wally was not a normal cabbie. He was that rarity: a black man with his own taxi and license. He was a family friend and happy to help her clear her brother's name. "Jerome is like the son I wish I'd never had," Wally liked to say. Most nights, he waited outside the Green Mill until she was done with her shift to take her home.
Tonight they followed the taillights of Carlito's Rolls-Royce all the way through downtown and to the docks--a place Vera usually avoided. This area was dangerous. Vera already worked in a Mob-run speakeasy; she didn't need the added threat of being around when the gangsters unloaded the hooch.
She asked Wally to let her out a block behind where Carlito parked the Rolls in the vacant lot. The hulking shadows of ships loomed to the east, but here the docks were still and silent.
Vera edged close to the Rolls, dodging from shadow to shadow until at last she found a hiding place behind a stack of tied-up crates. Already, there was Bastian Grey--she could see his smug features as he lit a butt from his silver cigarette case. He ambled out on the pier and stood smoking, staring out at the water.
She was sweltering on this warm summer night, thanks to her black, knee-length trench coat, but Bastian looked at ease in the heat, irritatingly handsome in a brown suit, his cheeks freshly shaven, his dark hair slicked back and parted. He was a looker, that much Vera couldn't deny.
"What do you want?" Carlito called out as he walked up, the lights from the pier warehouse catching his gray pinstriped suit and black fedora.
Carlito was her boss and had once employed her brother, Jerome, as the piano player at the Green Mill. But then Carlito and Tony Pachelli, one of his goons, had tried to kill Jerome. And Gloria, Bastian's high-society fiancee, had shot Tony dead. And then Gloria and Vera's brother had had to flee Chicago to save their lives.
And it was all Vera's fault.
Vera had been the one feeding Bastian information about Jerome and Gloria. Vera had been the one determined to break up their secret affair. Just because Vera hadn't known that Bastian was telling everything to Carlito didn't mean she was any less guilty.
That was why Vera was here, crouched behind a stack of crates, hoping to learn something incriminating about Carlito and Bastian--something she could use to barter for her brother's life.
"What do I want?" Bastian flipped his cigarette in a bright arc across the lot. "You're the one who told me to meet you here."
Carlito stepped backward. "No, I didn't."
"Secret notes and midnight meetings." Bastian walked a few steps away. "I'm tired of your little games, Macharelli." Only a young man as despicable as Bastian Grey could work with mobsters and show a proud distaste for them at the same time.
"This isn't a game," Carlito said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. "And I didn't send you a note. That means someone else did."
"Don't be absurd," Bastian said, lighting another cigarette. "Why would anyone go to the trouble of dragging us out here?"
Vera was leaning forward to hear better when she felt a hand crawl over her mouth. "What are you playing at?" a woman's voice whispered.
She wanted to struggle against the stranger's hold, but she couldn't give herself away. She felt herself being turned around to face her attacker.
Vera stared into the eyes of Maude Cortineau, Carlito's moll. When Maude had been a flapper, she'd barely paid attention to anyone outside her glamorous inner circle. Since she'd gotten with Carlito, she stuck to his side and spoke only when she was spoken to.
"I'm trying to eavesdrop," Vera whispered back. If Maude had been planning to bust her, she would've done it already.
"Shut up, Vera," Maude hissed. "I was waiting in the car, and I saw you running around behind these crates like you didn't have a care in the world. If Carlito sees you, you're in deep trouble. Don't be an idiot. You don't want to end up like me."
After dropping out of her bluenose prep school, Maude had become the queen of the Chicago flapper scene. Sequins, feathers, gold lame--she wore it all. Her makeup was always flawless and her headband always settled perfectly over her blond bob.
But now her beaded red dress hung over her bony body like a burlap sack. Deep shadows lurked underneath her kohl-rimmed eyes. Carlito had sucked the life out of her: The flame that Maude had once been famous for had been snuffed out.
"Maude! Where the hell are you?" Carlito called from the other side of the crates.
"Just be smart and hide," Maude said, clacking away in her heels, back to Carlito's Rolls. Carlito was pacing by the car as Maude ambled up, smoking a cigarette. She was the perfect portrait of boredom.
Carlito banged his fist on the hood. "I told you to stay in the car!"
Maude dropped the practically new cigarette. "I wanted a ciggy," she replied in a soft, defeated voice. "I know how you don't like anyone to smoke in your car, Daddy."
"Get in," he said. "We gotta go, and fast. This is a setup."
"You're being silly, Macharelli!" Bastian shouted. "No one is after us!"
But Carlito ignored him. He slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and sped off with a squeal of tires.
Vera let herself relax against the crates, leaning out to check on Bastian. How could she have been so stupid as to ever trust him? Those eyes, she thought. When she'd first met Bastian, his green eyes had seemed sincere--swoony, even. Arrogant, of course, but that was to be expected from a rich white boy like him. She hadn't realized the heartless steel his irises really concealed until she'd accused him of sending a man to kill Jerome and he'd just smiled and called her "silly, stupid Vera."
And in all honesty, that was exactly what she was.
Vera opened her purse and felt the comforting, cool metal of Bastian's pistol inside. She'd carried it often since she'd found it at Gloria's feet that night. Bastian certainly didn't know it was his own gun that had killed the gangster, that his own fiancee had pulled the trigger.
Vera had never used a gun before, but if a dame like Gloria could use one, then so could she. Vera loved Jerome every bit as much as Gloria did, and would go just as far, if not further, to protect him.
She snapped the purse shut and looked back toward the docks.
Footsteps, approaching from the other side of the dockyard. The figure wore a long black overcoat and a hat with a wide brim. Vera watched the person walk down the pier.
"Sebastian Grey?" Vera was shocked to hear the voice of a woman.
Bastian turned from the water. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure--"
"Skip the formalities. I'm looking for Macharelli. And the piano player, Jerome Johnson."
"Do I look like their keeper?" Bastian breathed out a cloud of cigarette smoke, and then his face brightened. "You're too pretty a woman to be chasing after trash like Carlito. But if you must know, he took off a minute ago."
The woman made a swift movement, and Bastian raised his hands in surrender. "Where to?" she demanded. "And where's the piano player?"
"No need for guns," Bastian said, slowly backing up. "Carlito went home. And Johnson? No one knows where he disappeared to. He sent his kid sister a postcard from a post office box in New York, but that's been a dead end so far."
"Thank you," the woman said. "You've been most helpful."
Then Vera heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Two.
Instinctively, she cowered, knocking her heavy purse against the crates.
The killer turned at the noise, her features hidden by shadow. All Vera could see was the silver pistol, pointed directly at her.
The third gunshot in as many minutes rang out over Lake Michigan.
The bullet slammed into a wooden crate so close to her head that Vera felt splinters hit her face. She didn't wait for another bullet. She just turned and ran.
It wasn't far to the edge of the dockyard, and the wall of crates was between Vera and the shooter. But Vera was wearing heels, and she'd never been able to run in heels.
Until now.
She waited for the crack of the gunshot and the bullet in her back as she crossed the lot, as she turned and ran the block to Wally's cab, as she banged on the window to wake him from his nap.
"What's the rumpus?" he said as she clambered into the backseat.
"Drive!" she said. "As fast as you can."
Wally didn't need to be told twice. He turned the key, gunned the engine, and took off.
When he dropped her at the club, it was already locked up for the night, but that didn't slow her down: She fumbled through her purse, found Jerome's old keys, and slipped the brass master into the lock.
Whoever the killer was, she wouldn't miss the next time.
From the Hardcover edition.
Elle Girl (online)
"Ingenue hits shelves August 9, and we are way ready for the latest glamorous chapter. Short skirts, dark and dank speakeasies, and a slew of boys are more than enough to grab our intrigue. It’s high time we strolled into our imaginary time machines back to the 1920s"
Booklist
"This is a minxes-and-mayhem cross between Friends and Boardwalk Empire."
School Library Journal
"The booze, deception, scandals, and romance will keep readers looking forward to the next book in the series."
TeenReads.com
"Larkin brings the colorful 1920s alive with her vivid descriptions of the amazing fashions and jazzy music. And she doesn't back away from the dangers and dirt of the time period either, incorporating the illegal speakeasy nightclubs with their smoky atmospheres and flowing liquor bars, and the law-breaking mobsters who rule the streets. She also tackles the racism and bigotry of the time, doing so with honesty and sensitivity. Fans will be excited to know that this talented writer is offering more thrills, romance and history with book three, DIVA, coming in 2012."
Bibliophile Support Group (blog):
"The cliffhanger end was pitch-perfect, and I am very much looking forward to the third book – Diva – when it comes out. I can’t help hoping that this is not the final book in what is turning out to be a lively, wild, romantic, opulent series! Want to sit back, relax, and be flat-out entertained? Grab Ingénue! That is, after reading Vixen!"
Feathered Quill
"This series should definitely be on your list to buy, as these books tell what 1920’s New York was really all about - good gossip and a whole lot of fun."
Book Loving Mommy
"I love the descriptions of New York in the 1920s! They are so real that you feel like you are watching it on TV. The speakeasies were well-described and it is obvious that the author has done her research into this world and time...I highly recommend that you pick up this series and give it a try!"
One Page at a Time
"Fun brain candy with lots of historical insight."
From the Hardcover edition.
"Ingenue hits shelves August 9, and we are way ready for the latest glamorous chapter. Short skirts, dark and dank speakeasies, and a slew of boys are more than enough to grab our intrigue. It’s high time we strolled into our imaginary time machines back to the 1920s"
Booklist
"This is a minxes-and-mayhem cross between Friends and Boardwalk Empire."
School Library Journal
"The booze, deception, scandals, and romance will keep readers looking forward to the next book in the series."
TeenReads.com
"Larkin brings the colorful 1920s alive with her vivid descriptions of the amazing fashions and jazzy music. And she doesn't back away from the dangers and dirt of the time period either, incorporating the illegal speakeasy nightclubs with their smoky atmospheres and flowing liquor bars, and the law-breaking mobsters who rule the streets. She also tackles the racism and bigotry of the time, doing so with honesty and sensitivity. Fans will be excited to know that this talented writer is offering more thrills, romance and history with book three, DIVA, coming in 2012."
Bibliophile Support Group (blog):
"The cliffhanger end was pitch-perfect, and I am very much looking forward to the third book – Diva – when it comes out. I can’t help hoping that this is not the final book in what is turning out to be a lively, wild, romantic, opulent series! Want to sit back, relax, and be flat-out entertained? Grab Ingénue! That is, after reading Vixen!"
Feathered Quill
"This series should definitely be on your list to buy, as these books tell what 1920’s New York was really all about - good gossip and a whole lot of fun."
Book Loving Mommy
"I love the descriptions of New York in the 1920s! They are so real that you feel like you are watching it on TV. The speakeasies were well-described and it is obvious that the author has done her research into this world and time...I highly recommend that you pick up this series and give it a try!"
One Page at a Time
"Fun brain candy with lots of historical insight."
From the Hardcover edition.
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurDelacorte Pr
- Date d'édition2011
- ISBN 10 0385908369
- ISBN 13 9780385908368
- ReliureBelle reliure
- Nombre de pages351
- Evaluation vendeur
Acheter D'occasion
état : SatisfaisantFormer library book; Pages can... En savoir plus sur cette édition
EUR 15,47
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Ingenue
Edité par
Delacorte Press
(2011)
ISBN 10 : 0385908369
ISBN 13 : 9780385908368
Ancien ou d'occasion
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Library Binding. Etat : Good. No Jacket. Former library book; Pages can have notes/highlighting. Spine may show signs of wear. ~ ThriftBooks: Read More, Spend Less 1.05. N° de réf. du vendeur G0385908369I3N10
Acheter D'occasion
EUR 15,47
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Image d'archives
Ingenue
Edité par
Delacorte Press
(2011)
ISBN 10 : 0385908369
ISBN 13 : 9780385908368
Ancien ou d'occasion
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Library Binding. Etat : Fair. No Jacket. Former library book; Readable copy. Pages may have considerable notes/highlighting. ~ ThriftBooks: Read More, Spend Less 1.05. N° de réf. du vendeur G0385908369I5N10
Acheter D'occasion
EUR 15,47
Autre devise
Image d'archives
Ingenue
Edité par
Delacorte Press
(2011)
ISBN 10 : 0385908369
ISBN 13 : 9780385908368
Ancien ou d'occasion
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Library Binding. Etat : Good. No Jacket. Former library book; Pages can have notes/highlighting. Spine may show signs of wear. ~ ThriftBooks: Read More, Spend Less 1.05. N° de réf. du vendeur G0385908369I3N10
Acheter D'occasion
EUR 15,47
Autre devise