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For Neena, who walked all over NYC with me to research these characters
and their world.
And for Brian, even though he thought Jazz & Murder was a good title.
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ONE
New York City, 1924
The long, drawn-out wail of a trumpet could hide almost anything.
The breathless conversation in the middle of a dance, when one
partner’s lips were so close to the other’s ear, just long enough for a
whispered invitation,
Meet me in the alley,
greeted with either a slap or a
smile that meant
Yes.
The girl who slipped up to the bar, who didn’t have any money, not with
the wages they paid at the factory, but who looked like she needed that little
bit of living the Nightingale could provide, so the bartender poured a drink
anyway and winked as he slid it over.
The stammered invitation,
Would you like to dance?,
of a new boy, still
unfailingly polite, before he learned to grin sideways and place a hand on
his heart, pleading,
Dust off your shoes, doll, no one can catch a quickstep
like you!
When the trumpet wailed, all that mattered was whether you could keep
time for the foxtrot, move fast enough for the quickstep, feel the reckless
joy of the Charleston.
It hid the way Vivian swallowed her champagne too quickly, bubbles
burning her throat and making her feel brave. It hid the ugly shoes that were
all she could afford, the secondhand spangles sewn onto the hem of her
dress, the way she didn’t seem to belong anywhere else but here, alive and
breathless and something like happy, even if it was only for a few hours.
The long, drawn-out wail of a trumpet could hide almost anything. Even
the sound of murder.
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