Chapter 4 Names Not Spoken

The dressing room smelt like sweat, Chanel No. 5, and heat lamp bulbs on their last breath. Loretta sat in front of the mirror, dabbing powder beneath her eyes like it could erase three years and two affairs. Her sequined dress hung from one shoulder, cigarette in hand, curlers halfway out of her hair like she'd gotten bored halfway through pretending to care.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it.

"We need to talk," I said.

She didn't look at me. "If it's about your pitch, you went flat on the third line of Blue Moon."

"It's about Frank Caruso."

That got her attention. One blink. Small. But there.

Loretta twisted in her seat to face me fully, one leg crossed sharp over the other.

"What about him?"

"You know him," I said. "And not just in the how-do-you-do sense."

She gave a little laugh, dry and tired. "Half the girls in this zip code have tried to get a look behind his tie."

"But you didn't just try," I said. "You succeeded."

She exhaled, long and controlled. "You're playing a game, Vivi. And you're not holding enough cards."

"Then deal me in."

Loretta stood and moved to the table behind her, poured herself a neat shot of gin from the bottle we all pretended belonged to the club. She downed it. Didn't offer me one.

"I went to a party last last year," she said finally. "Big house in the hills. Big names. People you read about when their wives get caught with pills and their drivers get caught with girls. Frank was there. He didn't drink. Didn't flirt. Just... watched. Like he was doing math in his head."

"What kind of math?"

"People. Power. Proximity. The kind that gets people dead or elected."

I stepped closer. "Who was he with?"

She hesitated. Then too casually said, "Some redhead. Tall. Pale. Real ice queen. He called her Celeste."

That name hung in the room like a match about to drop.

Loretta seemed to realise it the moment it passed her lips.

She turned back to the mirror, lit another cigarette, and didn't say a word more.

After the show, I lingered. Smiled at regulars. Kissed the cheek of a man who always tipped too much and expected nothing. It took me time.

Charlie packed up his sax in that lazy way he did everything, fingers deliberate, joints slow. I waited until he left out the side entrance.

Then I followed.

He moved through the back alley like someone born to it. No hesitation. Just sharp turns and deeper shadows. I kept my distance. Two car lengths. Enough to vanish if I had to.

He didn't notice. Or maybe he did, and he let me.

He stopped behind a shuttered pawn shop, half-covered in ivy. That's when the other man appeared.

Tall. Trench coat. Gloves, even though it wasn't cold. He handed Charlie something... a small envelope.

I stayed pressed to the wall, barely breathing.

The man said something. I couldn't hear the words.

Then I did.

"Vivian Dumas".

My name. Sharp. Specific.

Charlie didn't flinch. Just pocketed the envelope.

They parted without a handshake.

I waited ten minutes before moving.

Whatever game Charlie was playing, he wasn't playing it alone.

I didn't go home right away.

I walked. Long blocks. Neon signs blinking like dying stars. My heels echoed against the pavement like footsteps behind me.

By the time I reached my apartment, it was close to three.

I climbed the stairs slowly and checked the hallway twice.

Unlocked the door. Nothing disturbed. Nothing missing. But my nerves were humming.

I made a drink. Didn't finish it.

Sat on the window ledge and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out into the empty street.

A knock.

Soft. Twice.

I froze.

I didn't move for a long second.

Then I opened the door.

Frank stood there. Same coat. No smile. Just eyes that looked like they'd already been here once tonight.

"I was in the neighbourhood," he said.

"Are you ever really just anywhere?" I asked.

"No," he admitted.

He stepped inside without waiting. Walked the room like it was his.

I poured another drink, this time for both of us.

We sat on opposite ends of the couch, the silence tighter than skin.

"You look tired," he said.

"You look like you don't sleep."

He didn't answer that.

Then he said, "Malone. What's he got on you?"

I didn't breathe.

I didn't blink.

He said the name so casually it sounded like he'd said it before. A hundred times.

"What makes you think he has something?" I asked carefully.

"Because you talk like someone who knows she's in debt. And you look at me like someone who's deciding if I'm the better devil."

I wanted to lie. Could've. Should've.

But I didn't.

Instead I asked, "Who told you?"

He finished his drink. Set the glass down.

"No one has to tell me. I pay attention."

Then he stood.

"Goodnight, Vivian."

And just like before, he left before I could stop him.

The room felt colder after he left.

I turned on every light. Checked the windows. The closets.

Nothing.

Still, I didn't feel alone.

The envelope Charlie took. The name on his tongue. Frank's question.

Too many threads. No pattern.

I sat at the edge of the bed, shoes still on, and waited for something to happen.

But the door stayed closed.

And this time, there wasn't even a knock.