The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [147]
“The happy couple sailed yesterday on the RMS Majestic for a Paris honeymoon. The new baroness has forsaken the stage to make her home with her husband at the famous Haus Arnhaldt in Germany.”
Zev lowered the newspaper with trembling hands. A great anger was welling in him, the anger of a man forever forgotten, forever trampled upon. He was too late. Missie had married her millionaire and he would never see her again. She was the one person he had cared about, the only one to whom he had bared his soul, the only one he had loved.
The heat of anger faded, leaving him icy cool. His mouth set in a firm line as he told himself he would dismiss her from his mind, from his life. Forever. From now on he would think only of himself. Ambition stirred in him. If he was not to have love, then he would be a success. He thought of his meeting with Schroeder—the man would look at him in his black pawnbroker’s suit and think he had another sucker here. Well, he would think wrong. Zev Abramski was in charge of his own life now. He was master of his own fate, and no one was ever going to make a fool of him again.
New York
O’Hara strolled around the dimly lighted nightclub, sizing up the room. It was pretty good, he thought, small enough to be exclusive and big enough to make a profit. There was a stage for the band at one end and a circular dance floor that he planned to cover with glass and light from beneath. There were revolving mirrored globes on the ceiling, and the floor was stepped up from the dance area in three tiers, each crowded with small tables. Of course it needed jazzing up with a new color scheme, black and white maybe to set off the women’s colorful dresses, black carpets and tablecloths, silver lamé curtains. Yes, a bit of glitter would be just grand.
He stood in the center of the dance floor, hands in his pockets, envisioning the room with its glossy new look filled with the sounds of jazz music and the popping of champagne corks—at twenty-five dollars a time—and the laughter of wild, pretty young women. This floor he was standing on would be crowded with dancers flinging themselves about in the latest dances, and the men would be paying through the nose for the privilege of membership in King O’Hara’s.
He nodded, satisfied, and the real estate agent standing by the door breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll sign the lease,” O’Hara told him, “but not at the crazy price you are demanding. It’s too far uptown. Not even the biggest sucker on Broadway is gonna pay you that kind of money.”
O’Hara had done his homework. He knew exactly what he was going to charge: twenty-five dollars a bottle of scotch and ten for rye. He would even charge two bucks for a pitcher of tap water. He would have cigarette girls selling trinkets and souvenirs, kewpie dolls and boutonnières, at five bucks a shot, and any guy who didn’t buy one for his girl was a cheapskate.
“We’re talking Harlem here,” he told the nervous real estate man, “and I’m being reasonable when I say I’ll pay twenty-five percent less than you want.”
The man gulped and nodded. “Okay,” he said with a growl, “it’s a deal.”
“And that’s for ten years, not five.” O’Hara added as they walked to the door.
The man winced. “Aw, come on now, Mr. O’Hara,” he said.
O’Hara shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” the man said, scowling and slamming his hat on his head. “I’ll have the lease ready for you tomorrow.”
“Sure and that’ll be just fine.” O’Hara grinned as he watched him walk away. He stepped back on the sidewalk and looked at the façade of his nightclub. He could just see the sign out front: “King O’Hara’s” in shamrock-green, his favorite color. He strolled jauntily along the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. He was going to be his own boss at last. He’d had enough of ferrying hooch for the Oriconne brothers, stocking their clubs and restaurants, doing all the work and taking all the risks as the front man while they made all the money. He had seen how they operated: He had all the contacts and