"O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars." — Christopher Marlowe
New York City, East 60th Street, November 1954
I SHOULDN'T HAVE come. The thought was all Pamela could consider as she zigzagged through crowds upon crowds of beautiful female salsa dancers and dapper Latin orchestra band members, sporting their trumpets and miniature drums like colourful accessories.
Why did I ever agree to this? She asked herself. Why couldn't I have just stayed home to read? Washed my hair? Listened to the radio? Or done anything else?
It was a Thursday night, and she had work the next morning. The Copacabana was the spot Johnny and his crew hung around, and Pamela had no interest in running into the man after the humiliating spectacle back at the store. However, Caterina had convinced her that Thursdays at the Copacabana were always fun and that it would do her some good to come dancing.
The Copacabana was oozing with activity. It wasn't like the old money nightclubs that Timothy had taken Pamela to on some of their dates, where the staff wouldn't serve you unless you from one of the wealthy white families in the Upper Eastside.
The people running the Copacabana called themselves progressives and the voices of the young. They claimed to cater to all the richest and most influential people in New York City of every creed and colour. They also played Latin music, adorned the walls in safari animal patterned decor, and served steaming hot plates of Chinese food.
Young columnists made a sport of writing about the happenings of the Copacabana in the newspaper, providing old ladies and young homemakers with silly gossip over what awful thing Frank Sinatra had said to his latest girlfriend on Monday, or what gorgeous hairstyle the Copacabana girls were trying out on the weekend.
Several men in red uniforms were scattered around the room, barely visible beneath the constant swarm of people and pounding music. Caterina had said that they were there to guard the celebrities who frequented the Copacabana, as well as to break up fights if they ever arose.
Despite its self-proclaimed status as a progressive New York hotspot, the Copacabana was still an exclusive nightclub, and nearly impossible to get into unless you were a celebrity or had affiliations with the mob. Luckily, Caterina's father knew one bouncer, so to some of the other patrons' irritation, the girls could skip the long line forming down and around the block.
"Come on!" Caterina shrilled, ushering Pamela over to a small, circular table shoved against the backdrop of black and white zebra-stripe decorated wallpaper.
Pamela gathered the crinoline skirt of her red circle dress, smoothing it so that she could park on the chair without creasing the fabric.
"You look like an absolute doll!" Caterina let out a low whistle, eyeing Pamela's curled blonde hair and the pearls she had slipped through her earlobes. "Not half bad for a cube from the Upper Eastside!"
Several men standing nearby swung around to signal their approval.
Pamela ducked her head, her ears burning. "I still don't look half as glamorous as you, Cat."
"Beauty is an art, Pam. It takes practice." Caterina winked at one man as he pretended not to eavesdrop.
The two had become an unlikely pair of friends. Pamela cherished Caterina's company more than anything.
Pamela had grown lonely after moving to the Ave. Without the friendship of Lorna or her old high school friends, if nothing else, she appreciated the bubbly and talkative personality of Caterina De Lorenzo. It meant that she didn't have to talk that much herself. Rather, she could fill the silences of her own life with Caterina's ceaseless chatter. The stories about the boys Caterina went out with, her beauty tips and fashion icons, and her growing annoyance with Mr. Friedenberg's prolonged absence all entertained and distract her.
Caterina smiled, twirling her dark hair around her finger and scanning the room with her eyes, fleshing out the attractive young bachelors of the night. Before leaving, she had promised Pamela that she would find a dreamboat for both of them to dance the night away with.
"Look over there!" Caterina lowered her voice and nodded towards a group of stunning women, all dressed to the nines in diamonds and pearls.
Amid them towered a handsome man with a combed back hairdo and a comfortable smile. His teeth were a blinding white, the kind one saw in Crest toothpaste commercials. "Cast an eyeball over there. That's Leonard McCoy! Isn't he an absolute dream? He's directin' a film with James Dean as the lead. All those gals are actresses hoping to be cast in the movie as if they have a chance. Huh!"
Caterina stirred her water and shook her head vigorously, her eyes still trained to the promising young director and his posse of female admirers. He appeared bored by the girls corralling him like a penned-in farm animal. Suddenly, Caterina seemed to catch his eye, and he raised a brow in interest. She smirked coyly, daring him to approach.
Pamela was shocked by her friend's audacity, because she seemed to have undying confidence that never wore off. Pamela would never be able to flirt so openly with anyone, let alone a famous stranger. She didn't think she'd want to, either.
A young server with charcoal eyes and walnut brown skin obstructed the young Leonard McCoy from view. In his gloved hand lay a tiny notebook and pen. Irritated, Caterina groaned, but the waiter couldn't hear her over the pulsing cacophony of noise.
"Welcome to Copacabana! What can I do for you ladies?"
"A glass of gin, please," Caterina drawled in her Brooklyn accent, her dark lashes fluttering flirtatiously, her aim shifting.
"Oh! And add a plate of dumplings. Elizabeth Taylor said they were one of the best things she's ever had." Caterina giggled as though she and Elizabeth Taylor were personal best friends. The waiter hardly seemed phased, jotting down her order.
The waiter smiled pleasantly towards Pamela. "And for you, Miss?"
"A water, please." Pamela was humiliated. She didn't have enough money to spend on soft drinks, like the Coca Cola she might usually order. She hadn't gotten her first paycheck yet, and she couldn't possibly think of going back to her parents and asking them for money after her unexpected disappearance.
"Get the young ladies anything they want."
Astonished, Pamela froze and watched a dark figure looming in her periphery. From the voice, he was male, and from the expensive charcoal suit, he was wealthy. Before she could turn around, she heard Caterina's energetic greeting.
"Johnny! Fancy seeing you boys here!"
Pamela peered up at Johnny Siciliano. His brown eyes, framed by lashes a woman would envy, flashed violet beneath the flicker of lights. His grin settled upon his olive face. He swept a hand through his dark, slicked-back hair, like a bona-fide greaser.
Something electric shot through her.
He appeared far merrier to her than he had when she formally met him in the store. She wondered if he had forgotten their strange interaction and her brash reaction, or if he was just shrugging it off.
Behind him, a group of men in black suits waited, the group that had been in the alleyway on that long-ago evening. Idling behind the men was a group of women, many of the same young actresses who had been talking with the famed Leonard McCoy. One of these women gripped Johnny's arm, her neckline plunging and her head resting on his sturdy shoulder.
"There is no need," Pamela insisted as Johnny shooed the woman away, handing the waiter a stack of paper bills.
The girl pouted and moped, but Johnny paid her no mind.
"Of course there is. We're at Copacabana, New York's finest who's who!" The men raised their glasses and cheered.
"No, really, Mr. Siciliano..." Pamela met the eyes of the kind waiter and finally agreed to place an order. "Then, I suppose I'll have a Shirley Temple."
"No, no, we need some alcohol here. The lady will have your finest Pink Squirrel, and for me, a gin and tonic with ice." Johnny demanded, winking in Pamela's direction.
It annoyed her he had changed her order without asking, but before she could protest, the server grinned and waltzed away, stuffing the cash into his pocket. A malignant question came to Pamela.
Where had Johnny gotten the money? From some other poor, tired New York business owner?
Without asking, Johnny and three men plopped themselves down beside Caterina and Pamela. One man had his arm around the slender waist of a ditzy-looking blonde, and Johnny claimed the chair across from Pamela. The moping woman had vanished.
"Introduce Pamela to your friends, Johnny." Caterina cooed, fiddling with her plastic straw.
"This is Lorenzo." Johnny gestured to the middle-aged man holding the blonde like a trophy in his possession.
"And this is Tony and Mike." Johnny pointed to two younger men with prominent Italian features and brown eyes.
Caterina pointed her gaze towards the young man named Tony. "I'll never forget your name, dear Tony. I was always sweet on you, even when all the girls liked Johnny!"
It seemed as though Tony squirmed under Caterina's prying eyes, trying to keep her from noticing him.
"Don't bother with Tony, baby." Lorenzo addressed Caterina directly. "He already has a girlfriend, and he's stiff. Refuses to leave the old ball and chain."
Caterina sighed exaggeratedly, tilting her large brown eyes up to Lorenzo.
"Me..." Lorenzo's lips quirked into a menacing smile. "I'm completely available."
Johnny cast his earnest gaze towards Tony. "Hey! My best pal has a girl? Where is she tonight? Why didn't ya invite her here to be with us?"
From where she was sitting, Pamela could see Tony kick Lorenzo in the shin.
"I dunno, never met the dame," Lorenzo admitted, raising his shoulders in a shrug.
"She lives in the Bronx." Tony flushed, looking away. "Has to stay home to take care of her ma. She's real busy."
"And who is this little darling?" The man named Mike kept Pamela in his trajectory, inching so close to her that she could feel his hot, foul-smelling breath on her face.
Pamela edged away from Mike, uncomfortable with his hand moving treacherously down her waist.
"Mike, take it easy, okay? They work at Friedenberg's place, real nice girls." Johnny reprimanded Mike, who then shrugged and wrangled his hand away.
Eventually, Mike and Tony rejoined a gang of men and women on the dance floor, while Johnny stayed back and folded his long legs under the table.
Once Caterina exited to the lady's room to go freshen up, Johnny and Pamela were left, sitting across from each other in tense silence.
Johnny got up and hunkered down beside Pamela so that he could get a better view of the musicians and their orchestra, bringing his gin and tonic with him. He tapped his foot to the music, humming along pleasingly.
"What a song, huh?" He brought his hands together and clapped when the band had finished. The musicians relished in his wild applause, beaming at him with pride. It seemed everyone in the room knew exactly who Johnny Siciliano was and understood the power he wielded.
She noticed Johnny was sitting too close, his leg snagging the long skirt of her dress. She inched away, pretending to reach for the alcoholic beverage she hadn't yet touched.
"I'm sorry if he made you uncomfortable," Johnny apologized after a long silence. "Mike, I mean. He's a real Casanova. Or at least he thinks he is."
"I'm sorry about how I... hit you at the textiles shop," Pamela blushed.
Johnny burst into genuine laughter, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. "If we're still saying things we're sorry for, I'm sorry for leaving so quickly. It startled me, that's all."
A slow love ballad hummed through the air. The din of the room melted into more of a mellow susurration as people ceased their conversations to listen, transfixed by the sultry voice of the singer atop of the stage.
"I wanted to ask..." Pamela began, but lost her courage and buttoned her mouth shut once again.
"What?" Johnny dropped his fork to his plate, correcting himself. "I mean, what did you want to ask?"
"You said you're in business with Mr. Friedenberg. Do you know when he's coming back?"
Johnny didn't answer, his face becoming dismal and removed. A secret flashed within them. He knew something.
Of course.
He feels guilty, Pamela reminded herself. Or do mobsters feel remorse at all?
"I know I shouldn't ask. I'm just wondering because, well, I haven't been paid yet, and I've been wanting to get a train ticket to see my sister and her husband in the suburbs." Pamela explained. The last part wasn't completely true. Her sister had invited her to come to visit the kids, but she had no intention of going. Not now that she had been virtually disowned by Mother and Father.
"I'm awful sorry, Pamela. All I know is what I've been told, which is that Old Friedenberg, I mean Clyde, left to visit his family and never came back." His eyes got darker, and he turned to examine the dance floor.
"Have you worked with Mr. Friedenberg for long?" Pamela dared to ask, adrenaline pumping through her.
"No." Johnny hesitated. "Well, sorta. My boss knows him. They've been friends for a long time."
"Maybe your boss would know where he was?"
"I haven't asked. But talking about these types of things only stirs up more trouble. Mr. Friedenberg is safe and sound, enjoying an extended weekend away from work. Who'd wanna bother a man enjoying some well-deserved vacation time with his kids?"
"I hope that's the case." Pamela wasn't convinced.
A new song throbbed through the Copacabana, the music of steel drums, saxophones, and electric guitars melding in an entrancing symphony of noise. Couples charged to the dance floor in a plethora of pink crinoline and black leather, men swinging their partners up to the heavens.
Johnny rose from his chair and grabbed Pamela's hand. "This is a real groovy beat! Forget the business talk and dance with me."
Pamela gulped down her Pink Squirrel along with her suspicions and took his hand, following him out to the dance floor.
Johnny set his hands on her waist, and gingerly Pamela held onto his muscular shoulders as he swept her around the dance floor.
The music sped up.
His face was transformed by an exhilarated smile, the joyful light in his eyes pulling at the edges of her lips.
He looked like a different man, and Pamela decided he was handsome. Dark, tousled hair was gelled across his head, his eyes the colour of warm, melted chocolate. He threw his tailored sports jacket to the side and lifted her, spinning her around until she lost her breath in a fit of dizziness.
She felt mystified. She couldn't look at him for fear of breaking into a blush.
A small crowd of people had gathered to watch them, impressed by Johnny's polished dance moves and her good sportsmanship. The gossip columnist Caterina had pointed out earlier was watching intently, his hand moving rapidly as his pen ran across a small notepad. Pamela hoped he would not reveal her identity in the paper. The last thing she needed was her mother hearing about her dancing with a gangster at the Copacabana.
In the corner of her eye, Pamela saw someone familiar.
Sergeant Marino.
He was watching them with a knowing expression, and when he noticed her looking, he turned away to talk to a waiter.
"I need... a breath of fresh air."
"I'm sorry that I tired you out." Johnny apologized, a grin still plastered to his now amiable face.
"It's okay. I just haven't danced like this in a while." Internally, Pamela corrected those last two words to ever. She had never danced like that before.
Was it wrong that she had enjoyed it?
~~~
In the crisp New York night air, Pamela tried to collect her strength. It was no use. She was utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally.
What had she been doing, dancing with one of the most dangerous made men in the city? And had she enjoyed being in his arms, his eyes locking her into a state of near-paralysis, helplessness, and magnetism? She had felt something dancing with him she had never felt before; not with Timothy, not with anybody.
"Pamela." Sergeant Marino caught up with her, nodding in acknowledgement and taking off his hat.
"Hello, Sergeant Marino."
"Chilly night." Sergeant Marino offered.
Pamela nodded in mute agreement.
"We've found Mr. Friedenberg, your employer."
Pamela's breath sped up, and she waited for him to elaborate.
"But... it isn't good." Sergeant Marino inclined his head, wiping his handkerchief across his forehead.
"What happened? Is he ill?"
Sergeant Marino looped an arm through her waist, noticing her nervousness, or perhaps preparing to catch her if she were to faint from some dire news.
"Not quite. It pains me to tell you this... well, I wish I didn't have to tell you at all. We found his body off the banks of the Hudson River. He's dead."