Chicagoland by Gail Martin (important books to read TXT) 📕

the attention of being escorted by two brawny guys—even better since the joke was on the audience if they drew unseemly conclusions. “Let’s Misbehave” was Sarah’s motto long before it became a hit song.

“So where’s this mysterious nightspot?” I asked West as we headed out. If anyone else found the speakeasy’s name, “86,” a little ominous, no one mentioned it.

“Right around the corner,” he replied. West led us down the kind of dark alley smart people avoided in the big city. It took me a minute to realize he was whistling Mack the Knife. A few guys my size or larger lounged against the walls and gave us the eye, but they nodded to West as he whistled on past them, and I realized the song was a code.

The alley looked cleaner than others I’d seen in Chicago, without any piles of smelly garbage or skittering rats. More to the point, it didn’t stink like a latrine. That alone was a tip-off this wasn’t just another side street. West stopped in front of a dented steel door which was in the middle of a brick wall. Nothing identified the building, but 86 stood out in black paint against the steel, and below it, a narrow opening with a sliding panel.

West stopped whistling and rapped in a precise rhythm on the door. My brain caught up a moment later, recognizing the pattern as Morse Code. Dash-dash-dash-dot-dot, dash-dot-dot-dot-dot. Code for “8-6”—clever.

The sliding panel drew back. “We’re closed. Whaddaya want?” The voice sounded like it belonged to someone who was big, hairy, and bad-tempered.

“Just lookin’ for my melancholy baby,” West replied with a straight face.

The slide slammed back into place, and for a moment I thought West had gotten the password wrong. Then the door creaked open, and a bouncer who made me look tiny opened the door, stepping back to let us in. Given his size, we all had to shuffle past sideways toward steps that led to a lower level.

After all the theatrics with the whistling, tapping, and password, I was expecting a secret handshake, but apparently we’d passed muster.

“Whoa,” I muttered under my breath when we got to the bottom of the stairs because I’m classy like that. For as questionable as the alley above had been, the downstairs rivaled the opulence of the Standard Club if it were crossed with a fancy brothel. Dark wood, rich emerald- and ruby-toned wallpaper and stage curtains, accented by the glitter of polished brass and the glint of huge mirrors with beveled edges.

Over-the-top luxury, exemplifying the belief that too much is not enough.

Cigarette girls tottered past in short skirts and high heels with their trays of smokes. A blue fog hung in the air, proof that the patrons were enjoying a cigar with their bootleg bourbon. A jazz band played on the stage, and a few daring souls did the Charleston and the Lindy Hop on the minuscule dance floor.

Like with Ben Lavecchia’s speakeasy back in Cleveland, the customers came from all walks, united by their love of a good time, a good drink, and the chance to thumb their noses at the government. As long as they minded their manners and followed the dress code, the social restrictions of the street-level society proved flexible here.

The musicians were Black as well as the bartender—but so were several couples in the audience, dressed to the nines. Two women in flapper-style dresses sat a little too close to be best friends, as did some fellows at a back table, sitting shoulder to shoulder and no doubt hip-to-thigh. I was almost-but-not-quite sure the band’s torch singer was in drag. If anyone tried to make an issue, I felt certain that “Tiny” at the door would give them the bum’s rush out. I was still in the early days of immortality, but I’d already lived long enough to decide that most of the rules people made each other miserable over were a bunch of bunk.

“Where’s your friend?” Sarah asked as West slowly pivoted to scan the room. He was looking for his contact while I sized up the place for escape routes and possible threats.

“Sarah?” a voice asked behind me. We turned to see a tall man with angular features and chestnut hair approaching us.

Sarah looked surprised, then pleased. “Lassiter? My god, what are you doing here?” She gave him a warm hug, then stepped back and shook her head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“You two know each other?” West sounded surprised. I, on the other hand, just assumed Sarah knew everyone until proven otherwise.

“Saranac Lake, 1926,” they said, almost in unison, and laughed. It must have been quite the memory, whatever it was.

“Friends of friends are married to friends,” Sarah replied, turning to West and me. “That’s the short version.”

“C’mon—I’ve got a table in the back.” Lassiter Davis waved us toward a circular booth in a back corner where we could all sit with our backs to the wall and see the door.

I remembered what West had told us about Davis being a shifter and bet that was news to Sarah, although she played it cool. The name rang a bell with me, and I searched my memory, trying to place it.

Lassiter Davis. Davis Stockyards. One of the biggest meatpacking companies in the Midwest tied into the railroad barons and mobbed-up to the hilt.

Now that I knew, I could see the wolf in him. His light brown eyes were an odd color for a human, with the glint of a predator in them. Davis knew Sarah and West, but he eyed me cautiously, clearly sizing me up to decide whether I was a threat or an ally. I stared back, unintimidated.

The leather cushioned corner table might as well have had Davis’s name on it. Clearly, he held court here, and he ushered us into his space with the kind of entitled confidence that came with wealth and being an apex predator.

“What brings you to Chicago, Jack? As I recall, you don’t like the cold.” Davis gave