Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,1

his own take on the piece.

The rest of his band was top-notch. But none of the pending success made up for how Jerome had gotten here in the first place: because his sweet, beautiful fiancée was in prison for shooting a man—a man who’d been about to shoot Jerome dead. He hadn’t been allowed to see her once since she’d been pried away from him.

Now Gloria was stuck under glass, though hopefully not for much longer. Her cousin, Clara, had promised to use her column at the Manhattanite to rave at the injustice of it all until Gloria was released. In the meantime, Jerome planned to work as many gigs as he could. He wanted to save enough money so that somehow, somewhere, he and Gloria could get married.

The Manhattanite had been selling like hotcakes these past few weeks. So many New Yorkers were rooting for him and Gloria. Jerome knew that many people were eager to see him play, but ten times that number were keen to hear Gloria. And those were the people he hoped would help free her from the big house.

But this crowd was different.

Jerome glanced out the night-darkened windows of the club again and saw that some of the people were holding up signs:

RACE MIXING IS COMMUNISM!

GO BACK TO HARLEM WHERE YOU BELONG!

CHAISE IS FULL OF NEGRO LOVERS!

And those were the nice ones.

Jerome glanced at his band. “Looks like a different sort of audience tonight, fellas.”

The men’s eyes flicked to the windows and back. No one said a word. Arnie, the young bassist, crossed himself.

Little Joe waddled into the lounge from his office, looking natty in a custom-made black suit and matching bowler. He walked up to the windows and stood for a minute without moving.

“Boss?” Jerome called. “When you want to start letting the birds in?”

Little Joe turned and pulled off his bowler. He combed his fingers through the few gray hairs on his head. “Jerome, you’re a gifted musician—we both know that. And I don’t care about the color of your skin. Talent is talent. But this …” He looked back out at the protesters. “It’s not something my club can handle right now.”

“What about the show?” Jerome asked.

“Ain’t gonna be one. Not with that mob out there. We’d have a riot.”

Jerome clenched his fists. Couldn’t Little Joe see that stopping the band’s performance was exactly what those monsters wanted? But then he glanced at his band. They were all breathing deep sighs of relief, and Arnie wiped sweat off his brow. The boy was barely old enough to shave. “I understand,” Jerome said with a curt nod.

“C’mon, I’ll sneak you out the back. I’ll take you one at a time—that crowd’s bound to notice if you all leave at once.”

Little Joe led Jerome into the backstage area, which was strewn with wooden chairs, half-empty bottles of hooch, and overflowing ashtrays. “I’ll wait while you get out of that straitjacket.” In the band’s dressing room, Jerome changed out of his smart white suit and back into his tattered trousers and short-sleeved button-down. His suit looked forlorn where it hung on the rack in the corner. He’d have to come back and get it later.

At the stage door the manager counted a few bills from a fat roll. “Something for your trouble, kid.”

A year ago Jerome wouldn’t have accepted it. He hadn’t even played! But money had been scarce since Gloria got locked up six weeks before. Thanks to Puccini De Luca’s arrest and Carlito Macharelli’s death, Gloria and Jerome had never gotten their promised payment for performing at the Opera House.

And now this. Jerome didn’t know how he was going to make the rent at his roach-infested boardinghouse.

So Jerome thanked Little Joe and crammed the bills into his pocket. Then he slipped out the back door and into the night.

The stage door led to a deserted side street. Jerome pulled his hat down and turned left in the direction of the subway a few blocks away. He’d nearly reached the corner of the street when he noticed the man.

The man was leaning against a car far too expensive to be parked anywhere in this neighborhood. He was dressed immaculately in a tan suit and blue silk tie, his graying russet hair shining in the light from the streetlamp. Jerome had only met the man once, but he’d have recognized him anywhere.

Lowell Carmody. Gloria’s father.

Jerome crossed the street and walked up to the fat black car. “Mr. Carmody, what are you doing here?”

“Came to