The Flapper's Fake Fiancé

All three laughed, and the one closest to her, an older man with thinning gray hair, asked, “Don’t know, bearcat, you got any chin music?”

She giggled, loving everything about being a flapper, about being Libby, and laid a coin on the counter to order a fruit drink without alcohol. Betty had warned them all, numerous times, about how dangerous some homemade alcohol could be, and how they shouldn’t drink it. The Volstead Act prohibited the manufacturing and sale of alcohol, not the consumption, which meant people who wanted to drink, drank anything. And people wanting to sell alcohol made it out of anything at hand.

She had tasted several types of cocktails over the months, but ultimately, agreed with Betty. Most of it tasted awful and burned her throat. So did cigarettes, which she had also tried, and decided she didn’t need either whiskey or cigarettes in order to have a good time.

Once her drink arrived, she took a little sip and set the glass back down. “Well, the only chin music I’ve heard is from the newspaper, something about an escaped convict.”

The man farthest away from her, wearing a squat leather hat and boasting a big, black mustache, shook his head. “Ain’t read any papers lately, doll, but that guy over there is who I’d talk to if I wanted to beat gums over what’s printed in them.”

Patsy glanced across the room, toward a table where a man with brown wavy hair, parted on the side, sat alone.

“Why?” she asked.

“That’s Lane Cox,” the mustached man added. “He owns the LA Gazette.”

The air locked in Patsy’s lungs. Lane Cox. The very one who had sent back every article she’d submitted to his newspaper. He not only owned the Gazette, he was the best reporter in LA. She tilted her head to see past people mingling about, to get a better look at him. Odd. She’d expected him to be old, and gruff looking. Not young and dapper. However, seeing him meant she was at the right place. He must be investigating the Rex Gaynor story, too.

“If you want the news on the dock, ask that man.”

Patsy turned back toward the three men. It was the middle one who’d spoken this time. A younger man, with short-cut black hair. He was looking across the bar, at a man wearing a red shirt and black suspenders and puffing on a cigar. That man had a mustache, too, and therefore instantly earned the nickname Charlie. After Charlie Chaplin, a very popular actor with a black mustache. “Who is that Charlie?” she asked, loving being able to use popular lingo.

“Don’t know his name, but if something is going on at the docks, he knows about it,” the middle man answered.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

The man shrugged and took a long draw on his drink. “He’s been cruising the docks for weeks.”

That cigar-puffing Charlie wasn’t dressed like a dockworker, which meant something, that was for certain.

Letting things settle for a moment, Patsy picked up her drink, and while sipping on it, glanced across the room, toward Lane Cox, wondering if he knew who that Charlie was. But Lane was no longer at the table. A scan of the room said he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

She pinched her lips together to keep her smile secretive. If that Charlie knew anything, she’d find out before Lane Cox even. She could almost see the little drawing that would be printed along with her article, that of a man in a striped suit being hauled back to jail. She’d be a hero and a reporter.

Bee’s knees, this was so exciting!

She set her glass on the bar and sashayed along the length of it, to the other end where the man was talking to the bartender. Without waiting for the conversation to end, she laid a hand on Charlie’s arm. “Hey, big-timer, care to cut a rug?”

The man turned and looked at her with a cool eye.

He wasn’t very handsome. In fact, the long scar next to his left eye was rather frightening.

Patsy would have run from this man, but being Libby from head to toe, she brightened her grin and batted the lashes she’d carefully coated with black mascara. “One dance to please a gal?” She patted his arm. “Please, a handsome man like you?”

The man grinned. “Who can say no to a little billboard like you?”

Her heart thudded at how well she could play the part, and she whirled about, looking at the man over her shoulder, knowing he’d follow her to the dance floor.

The man at the piano was pounding on the keys, filling the room with the fast tempo of the ragtime song.

Charlie followed her, all right, and took a hold of her hands to pull her to his side as he started to move along the dance floor.

Being Libby and not Patsy, she controlled the icy shiver that rippled her spine at being so close to the man, and told herself that the Peabody was one of her favorite dances. It truly was and she was good at the fast one-step, as well as the long gliding strides that went along with quick steps. It was also a dance that kept enough space between partners.

As they circled the dance floor, he asked, “You come here often, doll?”

“Every so often.” She pulled up her best frown. “But I guess I’ll have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because of the escaped convict.” She looked across her shoulder at the man, hoping her expression made her look scared. “The chin music is that folks should stay home and keep their doors locked. That’s frightening. He could be anywhere.”

The man let out a barrel of a belly laugh. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head over Rex Gaynor. He’s only after the stash of cash he stole.”

Her heart skipped a beat. So did her feet. “Stash of cash? From where?”

Charlie got her back in rhythm with the music and led her all the way across the end of the dance floor, and then back the other way before he answered, “The train robbery. He hid it before getting caught, and broke out to go get it.”

She kept her feet moving when they wanted to stop again. “The paper didn’t say that.”

He laughed. “Papers don’t know everything, doll.”

Patsy had grown breathless, but dancing had nothing to do with it. Her heart was racing, stealing her ability to breathe, because of the information she’d just gained. “I wonder where he hid it.”

The man laughed again. “Only Rex knew that.”

The music ended and so did their dancing. She was about to ask him for another one, in order to learn more information, but he nodded at someone behind her.

“Sorry, doll, but I gotta blow this joint.” He winked. “Don’t be a squirrel.”

Libby was never a squirrel. She didn’t hide from anything. Didn’t have to. Spinning about, she looked to see whom he’d nodded at. The only person over that way was walking out the door located beside the end of the bar. All she saw was the back of a brown shirt. A moment later, Charlie walked out that same door.

Patsy considered following him, but she and her sisters had a rule. None of them could leave, not even step outside, without the other two—until it was time to go home. Then they left one at a time, but right behind each other.

She twisted left, then right. Jane was leaning on the piano, talking with the piano player, who was taking a break, and Betty was sitting at the far end of the bar, near where the three men she’d spoken to earlier still sat. Betty glanced at her, and then at the drink Patsy had left on the bar. Which meant she most certainly could not follow Charlie out that door.

She walked over, drank the drink and then set the glass on the bar again. “Is the powder room that way?” she asked as if Betty was a stranger.

Betty gave a slight nod. One that said I’ll be watching you come out.

Patsy knew the rules, and wasn’t going to jeopardize their double lives. But it was hard at times, having to follow so many rules that got in the way of her truly becoming a reporter. That was never going to happen if she could write only about mundane things.

She used the powder room and applied another layer of bright red lipstick before returning to the bar and ordering another drink.

Her mind was still spinning, but now, besides an escaped convict dressed in white and black stripes, there were images of bags of stolen money floating around in her thoughts. She scanned the room. There had to be someone else she could talk to. Someone who might know more about Rex Gaynor.

The room was full of people, those sitting at tables, laughing, drinking and smoking, and those on the dance floor. The piano man was pounding on the keys again, and the dance floor was full of men and women kicking up their heels. That’s what she usually did, too. There was nothing like the fun of that. Dancing beneath the bright lights, completely free of all the restrictions she normally lived by. It was hard to sit on the sideline.

As the idea of hitting the dance floor filled her, the music stopped and a man next to the piano announced they were starting a dance-off.

She loved dance-offs more than anything.

“Five dances. The foxtrot, the Charleston, the Lindy Hop, the shimmy and the tango!” the man yelled. “The best pair of dancers to finish all five dances will win these here trophies!”

The crowd cheered as he held up two glass mugs.

“Full, of course!”

The crowd cheered louder.

“Berries!” Patsy shouted along with others. She couldn’t care less about the mug; it was the dance-off itself that excited her. Tugging her hat down to make sure it was good and tight so her long hair wouldn’t fall out while dancing, she glanced around the room, looking for a man who might be able to really cut a rug. An Oliver Twist.

To her surprise, Lane Cox rounded the corner near the door right then.

“Copacetic!” Learning a bit more while dancing would be absolutely perfect!

She didn’t waste a step in getting across the room to grab a hold of his arm. “Come on, you’re my partner.”

He tried to pull his arm away from her, but she held on and stepped closer to his side.

“Don’t be a killjoy,” she said, batting her lashes. He was not only far younger than she’d imagined, but also very handsome up close.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not here to dance,” he said.

She laughed. “I am.”

He gave a slight nod that caused a section of his slicked-back wavy hair to fall over his forehead. “You’ll have to find someone else.”

This was a first. Men never refused dancing with Libby. He was the person who would know more about Rex Gaynor than anyone else. She hooked her arm fully around his. “I don’t want to dance with someone else.” Giving him a solid tug and a big smile, she took his profession into consideration as she added, “You can tell me more about Rex Gaynor and the stash of cash he’s looking for while we dance.”

Chapter Two

Lane Cox prided himself on rarely being surprised. He’d seen too much, heard too much, knew too much to let that happen, but right now, his breath was locked in his chest. It could be because the little blue-eyed flapper, batting her eyelashes at him, was about the cutest doll he’d ever seen.

But it wasn’t.

He knew that.

Women. Any woman didn’t affect him. One had at one time, but that would never happen again.

It hadn’t this time, either.

Her looks weren’t what stalled his breathing. It was her words. Stash of cash.

Very few people knew Rex Gaynor had broken out of prison to locate the money he’d stolen off the train he’d robbed seven years ago.

The train robbery that had changed Lane’s life. His wife had been on that train. And their baby daughter. Both had perished.

“Come on, Oliver,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

He almost took a step, but stopped himself before that happened. “Oliver?”

Her giggle literally floated on the air. “Yes, as in Oliver Twist. You do know how to dance, don’t you?”

He’d heard the term before, but hadn’t gotten over her “stash of cash” comment, and wondered if she’d thought he was someone else. How could she know that about Gaynor? It wasn’t public information. He gave her a solid once-over gaze from head to toe. Starting at the floppy blue hat that hid her hair, blond from the few stray hairs popping out near her neckline, to her slim neck and dainty chin, the blue fringe dress, the lanky legs, and ending at the tips of her toes inside the black-heeled shoes. She certainly didn’t look like the type to be mixed up with an ex-con, but looks could be deceiving. “Yes, I know how to dance,” he said, lifting his gaze back to her blue eyes partially hidden by the brim of her floppy hat.

She tilted her chin up and looked him square in the eyes. “Then prove it.”

A challenge? From a flapper who should be home being tucked in bed by her mother? She was young. Now that he could see her face, he’d guess she was not twenty yet. Maybe younger even. A family member of Gaynor’s? Sent here to get him off the scent of the story he’d been following? That was his life. Had been for years. Sniffing out the next story, and he was good at it. Very good. It had been said he never left a stone unturned, and this little flapper was definitely a stone he needed to look beneath. Find out how she knew about the cash, and anything else in that pretty little head of hers about Rex Gaynor.

Nothing excited him more than getting the scoop, and this story meant more to him than all the others had put together. He’d been there when Rex Gaynor had been put behind bars and was willing to do whatever it took to make sure the man was put back there again. “All right, doll, let’s cut a rug.”

She let out another lifting giggle as they headed for the dance floor.

Although the Rooster’s Nest was located downtown, the clientele was made up of dockworkers and construction workers, with a few shady characters thrown in here and there. Which made her stand out like a blue jay flying with a flock of pigeons. This wasn’t the kind of joint where a choice piece of calico was going to find herself a sugar daddy. Add that to the fact she knew more than she should about an escaped convict and he was in 100 percent.

A dance-off was a small price to pay in order to put an end to this story.

Pieces of paper with the number twelve were pinned to the backs of their clothes. A total of twenty couples got numbered pieces of paper pinned to their backs while judges were being chosen from the hundred or more bystanders. As they waited, he asked the flapper, “What’s your name?”

Her eyes lit up like flames on candlesticks freshly struck with a match. “Liberty, but you can call me Libby.”

That wasn’t her real name. He’d bet every wooden nickel in LA on that. Still, he gave a slight nod. “All right, Libby. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Mr. Co—” She laughed. “I don’t know your name. What is it?”

Yes, she did, but had caught herself before saying it. Which was only one of the questions he needed answered. “Lathan,” he answered, and watched her expression. No one knew his real name, his legal name, except his lawyer.

She lifted a brow and then gave him the tiniest of nods. “It’s nice to meet you, Lathan. Which of the dances is your favorite?”

He didn’t have a favorite. Hadn’t danced a whole lot the past seven years, and not much before then, either. Hadn’t had time back then, still didn’t. However, he wasn’t inept, and knew he’d be able to keep up with her. Instead of answering, he asked, “Which is your favorite?”

Her smile grew even brighter. “The Lindy—no, the shimmy. Definitely the shimmy.”

The dance that was banned in some of the high-class establishments for being too provocative. Why didn’t that surprise him? He’d be lying if he didn’t admit a piece of him wanted to see her shoulders twist and shake like she was trying to shimmy out of her chemise. That’s what made it too provocative for other joints—because that’s exactly what looked like was about to happen when women danced the shimmy. Or it could have been banned because others complained that watching flappers dance to the shimmy caused too many men to get more robust than usual.

“They are all cherries,” she said. “Have you ever won a dance-off?”

“Can’t say as I have,” he answered.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the center of the dance floor. “Until tonight!”

The words had no sooner left her mouth when the piano player struck the first chord. The atmosphere in the room instantly spiked. Something spiked inside Lane, too. Recognizing the common tune, he curved one arm around her waist and settled his hand on the small of her back while grasping her palm with his other hand. The foxtrot was similar to the waltz, just a four-four rhythm instead of a three-four, and to his favor, didn’t require any body contact.

He started out slowly, gliding her around the floor and through the several dance sequences. She was graceful, light on her feet and quick to catch on to each twist and turn.

“Attaboy, Oliver!” she shouted.

Her excitement had him picking up the pace, leading her faster around the floor. People on the sidelines cheered, shouting out the number of their favorite couple.

“Do you hear that, Oliver?” she asked. “They are cheering for us. Number twelve.”

“I hear,” he answered. “And the name is Lathan, not Oliver.” It didn’t bother him, but, for some reason, he wanted to get credit where credit was due.

Tossing her head back, she laughed, and then squealed slightly when she had to let go of his shoulder long enough to push her hat back down on her head.

“You should take that off,” he suggested as they rounded the corner of the dance floor.

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t wash my hair today!” She laughed. “Or yesterday!”

Her answer was as unexpected as the enjoyment filling him. He didn’t know a woman who would have admitted that, in public, to a virtual stranger. Most were far too vain to share such information.

Information. That’s what he needed.

“So, what do you know about that escaped convict? Rick Gaylord, was it?”

Her smile never faded, nor did her steps falter as she shook her head. “You know his name is Rex Gaynor, don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he answered, gliding them around another corner. The bright overhead lights shined down on her like a spotlight, and it seemed fitting. She was lovely enough to be under a spotlight. With her looks, she could be on the silver screen. Maybe that was what she was hoping, why she was here.

No, if that was the case, she’d have chosen a classier joint than the Rooster’s Nest.

“Then why did you call him Rick Gaylord?”

“To see if you really knew his name,” Lane answered. It was an old trick, but one that rarely failed to work.

Her chin lifted in a prideful way. “I do know his name. It’s Rex Gaynor. Seven years ago, he robbed a train running between LA and San Diego. He was sentenced to prison for the rest of his life, but escaped last week.”

All that had been in today’s paper. He knew because it had not only been printed in his newspaper, he’d written the article. Seven years ago, he’d owned the Gazette for only a year, and had been working day and night to get it into every newsstand, into the hands of every person living in Los Angeles.

His hard work had paid off. It was now the number one, most trusted source of news, not only in LA, but in the surrounding area that stretched over a hundred miles in all directions. Copies were also mailed across the nation every day. The president himself received the Gazette.

That was more than he’d dreamed at one time, but, as he’d told himself many times, he’d sacrificed a lot to make it happen. Naomi and Sarah were casualties of his work, of his dedication. At times, he wondered why he continued because of that, losing them, then he’d remember. It was because of them that he continued to work so hard. After they’d died, the paper had been all he had. Still was.

This time around, he was not too busy getting things off the ground to put his full attention on his family, on making sure the man who was responsible for their deaths paid the full price. Sarah had been only four months old when Naomi had contracted the flu. Naomi had recovered, but had still been exhausted, and taking care of Sarah wasn’t allowing her to get the rest she needed. The rest, and help, that he couldn’t give her because he was at the paper day and night. So he’d sent her to visit her parents, down in San Diego. They’d been gone for over a month, and her final letter to him had said that she was fully rested and ready to come home.

They’d been on their way home when Gaynor had robbed the train. With dynamite. The explosion caught the passenger car on fire, and Naomi and Sarah had died. Just five miles south of Los Angeles.

“Lathan? Lathan! We have to keep dancing or we’ll be eliminated!”

He shook his head, dispelling the cobwebs that could grow so thick, so quickly, that there wasn’t room for anything else, and increased the speed of his footsteps. She was leading now, this flapper who called herself Liberty. Libby for short.

He had no idea how long she had been leading, and quickly took over again, making a full round of the dance floor before the music stopped.

There was barely time to catch a breath when it started up again. This time it was a quicker, snappier tune that filled the room with a roar from the crowd of bystanders.

“It’s the shimmy!” she shouted. A moment later, she was in a crouched position, shaking her shoulders while holding her hands at her sides as she slowly rose upward, then leaped into the air, spun around and crouched down again.

Not only were her shoulders shimmying, her entire torso was, and her waist and hips. The fringes of her dress were flipping and flopping in all directions.

He joined her in the moves, but unlike her, this was not a favorite of his. It may be fun to watch, but not fun to do. Not for him.

Until she grabbed his hands and leaped forward, pressing against him. Her shimmying body lit a fire in his. Before he knew it, he was shimmying along with her, up against her.

“You really are an Oliver Twist, Lathan!” she shouted. “A real hoofer!”

She’d make any man a hoofer. The girl had moves like no other. “Who taught you how to dance?” he asked.

She released his hands and did a shimmy show for him, crouching and then slowly rising while shaking her torso so hard he was sure she would shimmy right out of that blue fringed dress. She leaped into the air and spun around, shaking her backside at him, before leaping back around.

“No one taught me!” She grabbed his hands again. “I learned it all on my own!”

She certainly had learned it, and he wondered what else she’d learned. Thankfully, that thought brought him back to the business at hand. “What else do you know about Rex Gaynor?”

Pressing herself against him, she said, “Your turn. I already answered a question. What else do you know about Rex Gaynor? Something that wasn’t in today’s newspaper.”

He knew plenty that wasn’t in the article he’d written, and that’s why it hadn’t been in the paper, he didn’t want to share any of it. He had a very good relationship with law enforcement because they trusted him to not share any information that might hinder an investigation. They also knew he’d share anything pertinent with them before printing it, and that he couldn’t be bought off, not even by the mobs. That alone had helped him grow the newspaper as much as everything else. Knowing she wouldn’t wait long for a response, he answered, “Gaynor wasn’t from California.”

She leaned back enough to look at him. Eagerness, more than before, shone in her eyes. “Where’s he from?”

“Out east.”

“Everything is east of California.”

“Hawaii isn’t.”

Her laughter made him chuckle.

“You are quite a bird, Lathan, quite a bird.”

Very few people considered him funny. Then again, very few people who knew him personally would believe he was dancing the shimmy with a flapper like this. He was normally too reserved to dance more than an obligatory dance with a hostess now and again.