She sat back, stunned. “First of all, I don’t walk around pissed off. I’ve had stories killed before and sucked it up with no complaints. I’m more worried about the shift in focus of the site. You’ll be like everyone else. Don’t you want to stand out? Isn’t that why you formed the company in the first place?”
He bit the side of his thumb. “If you don’t like it, you should just leave.”
The realization of what he was doing hit her hard. Her salary, though paltry, was bigger than any other journalist’s at the company. He wasn’t killing anyone else’s story, only hers. Because he wanted her out.
“Tyler, would you prefer it if I left WordMerge?”
“Of course not.” The expression on his face remained unchanged. “Unless, of course, you don’t feel you’d be happy here. You might find the work slightly tedious.”
“Then you should let me go.” How much severance could she get? Four months, maybe?
“Oh, no. Of course I’d never fire you.” He’d probably figured out the cost of her severance as well. And didn’t want to pay it. “When you first came here, I was glad. But things have changed.”
Her jaw clenched. She refused to spend the few remaining days of her father’s life putting up with Tyler’s nonsense. “If I go, I’m taking everything to do with the Barbizon story with me.”
“You can’t do that, it’s the property of WordMerge.”
She lowered her voice, better to threaten him. “You don’t want that story. I do. I get everything and I don’t go to Gawker and tell them you’re floundering. You know they’d like nothing better than dirt from a notorious journalist.”
He went white. “Okay, fine, take your story with you. You can have it.”
“Thank you.” She stood, grabbed the ball that hung above his desk and yanked it so hard it came loose from its tether, then threw it into the trash can. “In that case, I quit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
New York City, 1952
Darby entered the grand lobby doors of Carnegie Hall and looked about her, confused, until a man in an usher’s uniform redirected her to the back entrance. She took the elevator up to the floor where the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was located, and stepped into a hallway filled with young people her age. Some were talking loudly or laughing, others singing scales. The noise level was astounding.
She stepped over two khaki-clad men sprawled on the linoleum floor, smoking cigarettes and reciting their lines out loud. Hopefully, Darby would get a chance to pull Esme aside before the next class began. She scanned the crowd for her friend’s dark mane, with no luck, eager to surprise her with the news that her mother had come and gone, that the deed had been done.
Darby opened a door marked OFFICE at the end of the hallway, where a secretary talked with a distinguished-looking gentleman who perched on the side of her desk. The secretary looked annoyed at the interruption.
“I’m looking for Esme Castillo.” Darby was nervous, but all the phone lessons at Katharine Gibbs had paid off, for her voice remained perfectly modulated.
“Who?” The receptionist looked down at a list on her desk. “Is she a student?”
“Yes, she began studying here this fall.”
“How do you spell that?”
Darby spelled it out and waited.
“No, I’m not familiar with that name. Hank, you heard of her?”
The man was handsome in a Hollywood way, with thick, wavy hair. He seemed to enjoy being looked at and took his time answering. “No, can’t say that I have. Are you sure you have the right school?”
“AADA. I know I do. She tried out last month. She’s been taking classes each week.”
The receptionist giggled and the man named Hank smiled. “We call them auditions, not tryouts.”
“Right. Auditions.”
“Wait a minute.” The man froze, one hand lifted, mouth parted, as if he was teasing her or playing some kind of acting game, but then his concentration broke. “Esme Castillo?”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, with so many students, it would be hard to keep track. Particularly if you were as self-aggrandizing as this guy. “Yes. That’s her.”
“Does she have an accent?”
“Yes. She’s from Puerto Rico.”
The secretary bit her lip and looked confused. “Huh.”
Hank cut in. “I do remember her. I can’t believe I ever forgot this.” He held his hand in front of him, palm facing outward, setting the scene. “I wasn’t scheduled to be on the panel that day, but Mr. Peterson was ill. This woman came in, lipstick the color of blood, shiny brown hair.”
“That’s Esme, yes.”
“She was arresting, I’ll give you that. She stood in the center of the room, wearing a dress that was quite revealing, and launched into a monologue from Romeo and Juliet. I tell you, I could barely understand a word the girl said. We sat there with our mouths agape.”
“We don’t take people with accents,” said the secretary, by way of explanation.
Romeo and Juliet. Esme had left a copy of the book in her room soon after they’d met, saying she didn’t need it anymore now that she’d been accepted. “She’s not enrolled, then?”
Hank laughed. “No, of course not. But she certainly perked us all up after a long day. I remember her well.”
Anger surged at his offhand dismissal. Esme had spent weeks preparing her speech. Only to be cut down by these buffoons. “Would she have studied with someone from the school, or anything like that?”
“No, there’s no room in the industry for girls who don’t know how to speak properly. Sorry, but you won’t find your friend here.”
Back in her room, with Mother’s condemnation still echoing in her head, Darby was surprised to learn she had another visitor. Had Mother returned to drag her back to Ohio? Or maybe she regretted their harsh exchange?
Instead, Sam stood in the lobby of the hotel. Darby checked herself from running into his arms, as Mrs. Eustis was greeting some new arrivals near the front door.
“I’m so glad to see you. I was just about to head downtown to find you.”
He looked around, pulled her close, his voice low. “We need to talk.”
Darby requested a visitor’s pass from the registration desk clerk, and led Sam up the stairs to the public lounge on the mezzanine level. A couple of the models giggled when they walked by, but Darby shot them a look that, to her surprise, sent them scampering away. To her relief, Sam didn’t gawk at their long limbs and silky hair as she expected him to. He pulled her down onto the tufted leather sofa.
“My God, it’s good to see you.”
“What’s going on?”
Sam ran his hand through his hair. “We’re in trouble.”
“We are?”
“Well, I am. The club, me, Esme. Big trouble.”
“I went looking for Esme at her acting school earlier, but they said she never enrolled.”
He straightened up. “Look, Darby. I think she’s run off.”
“What do you mean, run off? We have plans.”
“I know this will be hard to hear, but your plans mean nothing now. I don’t think she’ll ever show up here again.”
What was he talking about? Darby didn’t like his grave tone. “What’s going on?”
He reached out to touch her, but his hand fell back to his lap, as if it didn’t have the energy to finish the movement.
“Sam, tell me.”
“An article came out in the Herald Tribune today.” He pulled out the paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Esme did something really stupid.”
Darby glanced down. Sam pointed to the lead column and she began reading. The words swam on the page: Puerto Rican hatcheck girl, Detective Quigley, heroin, and the names of musicians she knew well. The Flatted Fifth.
She swallowed hard.
Sam ran his hands through his hair. “Esme had another side to her, one she didn’t want you to see.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s worked for Kalai for the past year.”
Darby tried to understand why this would be a problem, but it didn’t add up. “Esme sold spices?”
“Mr. Kalai has another kind of import business. He brings in heroin, other drugs on the side. He’s mentioned later in the article.”