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    Night and Day
    Night and Day
    Night and Day
    Ebook75 pages1 hour

    Night and Day

    By Rowan Speedwell

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Nate Pederowski is about as far down as he can go when he’s tipped to a job as a singer in a speakeasy. Dishonorably discharged for being queer, broke and homeless during the Great Depression, Nate is embittered and lonely. The club’s handsome owner, Rick Bellevue, and his sister Corinna are wowed by Nate’s voice and offer him the job.

    But the Starlight Lounge is much more than an ordinary supper club, and Rick and his sister much more than just the owners. It’s not ’til Nate gets caught up in a gangster’s plot that he discovers just what secrets they’re hiding. Nate’s life is going to change in ways he can scarcely imagine, let alone believe.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDreamspinner Press
    Release dateMar 9, 2016
    ISBN9781634770903
    Night and Day
    Author

    Rowan Speedwell

    Rowan Speedwell is a cynic who believes in romance, an obsessive-compulsive who lives in chaos, and an introvert who loves to start conversations with strangers. Everything is fodder for a story, so be careful what you say to her. While not plotting either a novel or world domination (which will never happen because she’s far too lazy, but the world would be run so much better if she was in charge), she can be found reading, watching superhero movies, reading, and trying to avoid being bitten by her cat, Psycho. (Just kidding—her cat’s name is Pandora. Not kidding about the biting, though.) And reading. She loves history but hates historical novels, because people never get them right. Historical romances are okay because no one expects them to be remotely accurate. Her other hobby is buying craft supplies. Not doing crafts, just buying the supplies. Her favorite activity is untangling yarn snarls. She is a longtime member of the Society for Creative Anachronism. She has a website, www.rowanspeedwell.com, but is terrible about keeping it updated.

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      Book preview

      Night and Day - Rowan Speedwell

      Night and Day

      By Rowan Speedwell

      Nate Pederowski is about as far down as he can go when he’s tipped to a job as a singer in a speakeasy. Dishonorably discharged for being queer, broke and homeless during the Great Depression, Nate is embittered and lonely. The club’s handsome owner, Rick Bellevue, and his sister Corinna are wowed by Nate’s voice and offer him the job.

      But the Starlight Lounge is much more than an ordinary supper club, and Rick and his sister much more than just the owners. It’s not ’til Nate gets caught up in a gangster’s plot that he discovers just what secrets they’re hiding. Nate’s life is going to change in ways he can scarcely imagine, let alone believe.

      For my dad.

      THERE’S AN address over the door, but no sign, and you might have just passed by except for the bouncer sitting out front. He’s got a couple of battered crates piled in front of him, and he’s playing solitaire on them; you can hear the slap of the cards as you cross the street. It’s Cerberus at the gate; he looks like a pair of extra heads would fit fine on that thick neck. In deference to the heat, he’s wearing just an undershirt with his dark trousers and a straw boater. He doesn’t look up when you pause in front of him.

      You flatten out the crumpled piece of paper in your hand and read the penciled address. It’s the same as the one over the door, but the bouncer doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. You don’t blame him; you look just like all the other derelicts in town, and probably smell just as bad. Washing up in a public restroom sink doesn’t do much for the problem, and you’re wearing the same clothes you’ve had on for three days.

      Help you? he finally asks, not looking up from his game.

      You look down at the spread. He’s already fanning out the three cards for the next draw, but you say, Black five on red six.

      Now he glances up. Say what?

      Five of spades. Six of hearts. Then you can open up the stack with the four of diamonds.

      Huh, he says, and turns back to the spread. The move opens up what looks like a nice run, but he’s polite enough to hold off on it to ask you again, Can I help you? The voice is less begrudging this time.

      I’m here about the job.

      He frowns, shakes his head. No jobs here, pal. They aren’t hiring.

      Your stomach wrenches and you say, falteringly, But Harry said….

      This time he blinks before talking. Harry sent you? Why dincha say so? He frowns now, seeing you for the first time, seeing the battered brogans, the worn wool of the trousers, the jacket with the patched elbow. Slowly, he says, Go on in, I guess. If Harry sent you. Rick’s the one you gotta talk to. He shifts just far enough out of the way for you to squeeze through; you see his nostrils flare as he catches a whiff of you, but he says nothing, just turns back to his game.

      Inside the first door is a small vestibule, hot and stuffy and probably why the bouncer’s sitting outside. The door on the opposite side is dark blue velvet, padded and tufted, and in each little tuft is a rhinestone, so the door sparkles like a night sky. It’s pretty and lush and everything you don’t have anymore. But there’s a handle, and it opens, and you go inside the club.

      The lights are on, and the mystique of the nightclub is by day just tables and chairs and an empty bar. Ceiling fans circle slowly overhead, putting the ghost of a breeze in the air to cool it down. But the place isn’t quite abandoned; over on the low dais of a stage is a piano, gleaming black and sleek, and a man is sitting slouched on the bench, noodling around on the keys. He’s long and lanky and, like the bouncer, is wearing a tank-style undershirt, but it’s over pinstriped slacks, and he’s got a striped tie looped and knotted loosely around his neck. He’s wearing a fedora and has an unlit cigarette stuck to his bottom lip. As you watch, he leans forward and makes a notation on the sheet music in front of him, then goes back to his noodling. Another moment, another notation, and he leans back and tilts the fedora back from his face, and you get a good look at him. He’s young, you think, and handsome; clean-shaven, the way you like, and with a face that looks like it enjoys smiling.

      You make some movement, some reaction, and he notices you. One dark eyebrow lifts, and a grin spreads across the wide, mobile mouth. He takes the cigarette out and drops it in an ashtray on the piano, then says, Didn’t see you come in.

      I’m here about the job, you say again. You’re feeling even less confident than you were before you stepped through the door.

      The eyebrow lifts again, and he says, The singer?

      You flush, and mutter, "Harry sent me. He said you’d give a listen. That’s all

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