A reg looking around the room would assume the brass candlestick in the corner was the model for the painting above it, but Corinne had been there the day he pulled the candlestick from the canvas. It was one of his first successful pulls, and she could remember Johnny slapping him on the back. She remembered how happy Saint had looked.
Tucked among the painting supplies was evidence of other practice pulls. A milk can, a vase of wilting flowers, even a bowl of eggs. Johnny had been pressuring him in the last year to paint items of value that they could sell, but no matter how much time Saint spent on the painting, the objects he pulled were never quite perfect. Precious gems were declared worthless by jewelers. Gold bars were little more than gilded lead. Even the candlestick, which was brass by all appearances, was pliable to the touch, like modeling clay.
Johnny never said much to Saint about these attempts, but somehow that only made the failures more cutting. Corinne knew their talents had always been intertwined with their duty to the Cast Iron, but the stakes hadn’t always been so high. She remembered a night, years ago, not long after she and Ada had moved to the club.
The three of them had sat on the floor of Saint’s room, legs crossed, breath bated, while he pulled out a plate of steaming cookies from a fresh painting. The treats hadn’t tasted quite right, but that didn’t stop them from devouring the lot until their stomachs ached.
“I’m sorry about Ada,” Saint said suddenly, not looking at her. “That’s all I can say, all right?”
His soft eyes and the freckles across his pale face always made him look much younger than seventeen. Normally that was something Corinne teased him about, but now it just made her feel worse. She drove her fingernails into her palms until they stung. She knew she owed it to Ada to say what needed to be said.
“You’ve always been a good friend to me,” she said at last.
“But?”
“But Ada is much more than that, and I saw where she spent the past two weeks.”
Saint buried his head in his hands. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmured.
“I believe you,” Corinne said. “But I’ll always stand by Ada. You know that.”
He didn’t reply. Corinne sat beside him for a few more minutes, thinking more about the night with the cookies, how those three children never once suspected what the ensuing years would bring. Finally she shook herself free from the memories. She patted Saint on the back and left without saying anything more.
In Johnny’s office, Ada dropped the money on his desk. She refused the seat he offered her. Johnny counted the cash and began dividing it bill by bill. The only sound in the room was the shuffle of paper. The smell of cloves and pine that had been so comforting the night before was suffocating now. Finally Ada couldn’t stand the silence.
“What did Saint tell you happened?” she asked.
“He told me everything,” Johnny replied, still counting.
“Then when will he be gone?”
Johnny stopped counting. He folded his hands and looked at her.
“He’s not going anywhere, Ada. He’s one of us. You know that.”
She shook her head. “He sold me out to save his skin. He’s not one of us, not anymore.”
Two weeks ago, Ada had run a simple—if slightly illegal—errand for Johnny. With Corinne home for Christmas break, Saint went as the lookout. Ada knew he wasn’t quite comfortable on the street, but he had played the role before without incident. No one could expect to live at the Cast Iron without paying their dues, even Saint—whose father had served in the same regiment as Johnny.
When things went awry, she’d kept her mouth shut at the police station. It never once occurred to her to flip on Saint, or to doubt that Johnny would bail them out before they were sent to Haversham. It also never occurred to her that Saint would fold under their bluff, that he would betray her for the chance to walk free.
Johnny closed his eyes briefly. He always had such a calmness about him. Ada could never figure out where that kind of serenity came from.
“I can’t turn him out,” he said.
Ada stared at him, incredulous. “Johnny, loyalty is the only thing that’s ever mattered to you.”
“I’ve got bigger concerns than that right now. If Prohibition passes next week, the Cast Iron’s days are numbered.” His tone had a grim edge to it.
“Do you really think it will pass?” Ada asked.
The movement to ban the sale of alcohol had been quietly fuming for as long as she could remember. Alcohol was a huge part of the Cast Iron’s income, especially now that they could host hemopath shows only every couple of weeks. If alcohol was banned too, then the club would be sunk for good.
Johnny shrugged. He pulled out his pocketknife and slit open an envelope on his desk. Whatever was inside must have been unimportant, because he tossed it away. He rammed the tip of the knife into the wood and looked at her.
“Saint isn’t going anywhere. I’m not asking you to forgive him, or to even speak to him. But he’s staying.” Johnny glanced down at the bills stacked on his desk. With a single finger, he straightened an errant note until the pile was perfectly even. “I’ve got debts to pay. Same as anyone else.”