Are you?”
“A little,” she says honestly. “My parents have an itinerary for me. Wilson drives me everywhere I go.”
“I’ll take you somewhere nobody will see us,” I promise. “Or at least, nobody you know.”
I drive us over to Lakeview, to an old brick building with a nondescript door halfway down its alley. Simone looks like she barely wants to get out of the car once I’ve parked. Still, she follows me out, slipping her hand in the crook of my arm as we walk, holding onto me for protection. Nobody around here would fuck with us, but I like the feel of her clinging to my arm.
I knock twice on the door. After a moment it cracks just wide enough for the bouncer to give me a once over. Tony breaks into a grin at the sight of me.
“There he is,” he says. “Where’ve you been, Dante?”
“Places where they don’t skimp on olives, ya cheap fuckers,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder.
“You’re not supposed to eat a whole jar with your drink.” Tony grins. “Guess they never taught you that in finishing school.”
Tony cocks an eyebrow at Simone, hiding behind my arm.
“Dante,” he says. “What are you doing with a pretty girl like that? Are you so tall she can’t see your face? Come on love—you know you can do better than this guy.”
Simone looks mildly alarmed, but her years of social training haven’t deserted her. She looks up at me as if really examining my features for the first time.
“He’s not so bad,” she says. “Not if you squint.”
Tony laughs. “Squint a lot in there—you won’t notice the holes in the carpet, either.”
He lets us pass into the speakeasy.
The Room is a private club with only three hundred members. Papa and I are two of them. The rest are some of the most old-school Italian, Irish, and Russian gangsters in the city. And by old-school, I mean very old—I’m probably the youngest member by ten years at least.
That’s why I’m not worried about bringing Simone here. She’s more likely to witness a coronary than a shoot-out.
Plus, I figured she’d dig the vibe. It’s a tiny space, dark as night since we’re underground, except for the low light of the shaded lamps on the table, and the green neon sign over the bar. There’s plush crimson chairs, faded carpets, ancient wallpaper, and a solid wall of dark, dusty liquor bottles that really might have been here since Prohibition.
The waiters are about a hundred years old, too. They shuffle around in their white dress shirts and long black aprons, never spilling a drop of a drink.
Carmine comes to our table, giving me a friendly nod and Simone a little bow.
“What can I get you?” he rasps.
“Let’s do the sampler,” I say before Simone can answer.
“Thanks,” she says, as Carmine totters back to the bar. “I didn’t have a clue what to say. I’ve mostly only drunk champagne or wine. Plus a few mimosas. My parents aren’t big drinkers, but you know wine is hardly considered alcohol in Europe.”
“It’s mother’s milk for Italians,” I say.
Carmine comes back a few minutes later with a tray loaded with eight miniature cocktails, plus a wooden board bearing marinated olives, house-made pickles, nuts, dried fruit, and a couple kinds of cheese.
“Is all that for us?” Simone squeaks.
“These are historic-era cocktails,” Carmine explains patiently. “Just a little sample of each. Here you got The Bee’s Knees—a little honey and lemon in your gin. Then the Mary Pickford—that’s Cuban rum, pineapple, and a touch of grenadine to give you that lovely pink color. I’m sure you’ve had a Sidecar before—brandy sour with cognac, orange liqueur, and lemon. And finally, the classic Chicago Fizz—a little dark rum, ruby port, egg white, lemon, and club soda.”
He sets the miniature cocktails down in a row in front of Simone as he names each one.
“Cheers,” I say, picking up the Chicago Fizz. Simone gingerly holds up the same. We clink glasses, and she takes a sip.
“Not bad,” she says.
She has a foam mustache above her lip. It makes her look even more like a little cat. I can’t help smiling.
“What?” she says, smiling back at me.
“Nothing,” I say.
She starts to giggle.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask her.
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the bar. I’ve got a mustache too.
We’re both laughing, so much that the men at the other tables give us disapproving looks.
I wipe my face with a napkin, then hers, gently.
“You