The Cast Iron was a club on the corner of Clarendon and Appleton Streets, too close to the South End to be high-class but too close to the theater district to be disreputable. The current owner, a Mr. John Dervish, enjoyed skirting the line between the two. The building stood proud and alone, with only empty storefronts for neighbors and an abandoned bakery at its rear. A garish red door led into a dim corridor lined with mirrors. The heavy wooden door at the other end opened into the club proper, which boasted a long bar and tables of all shapes and sizes scattered around the room.
When Corinne and Ada walked in, arm in arm, just before seven, business was gearing up for the evening. There were only a few patrons scattered among the tables, nursing drinks and swaying to the sinuous melody of a lone pianist onstage. Ada reassured herself that her coat was buttoned over her Haversham-issued smock, just in case.
“Heya, kiddos,” said the bartender, glancing up from the glass he was drying. He was tall and lean, with salty hair and cheeks covered in grizzled stubble.
“Heya back, Danny,” said Corinne, tossing the car key onto the bar. “Be an absolute peach and get Johnny’s car back to his garage?”
Danny looked down at the key, still polishing the glass with practiced flicks of his wrist. “I look like a chauffeur to you, Wells?”
Ada leaned across the bar and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll get you a cap, and you’ll look mighty fine,” she told him.
Danny raised an eyebrow, with the look of a man determined not to be moved. After a few seconds his face broke into a grin, revealing two gold teeth. “Ada Navarra, you incorrigible minx.”
“Five syllables, Danny? Where’d you learn that one?” Corinne asked, stretching over the counter beside Ada to nab a bottle of gin.
“Pain-in-the-ass girl I know,” he said. “Steals my alcohol and has apparently decided to take up nursing. By the way, that bottle’s going on your tab, not mine. If those teetotalers get their way, I’m going to need every penny for my early retirement.”
“America is the land of liberty, Danny dearest,” Corinne said. “She won’t stand for Prohibition, mark my words.”
Danny snorted and shook his head. “So you two dolls ever gonna tell me why the Cast Iron’s best musician mysteriously vanished for two weeks and now you’re both showing up looking like a couple of pawn shop mannequins?”
“Probably not,” said Corinne.
“Figured.”
Danny set down the glass on the worn wood of the counter and pocketed the key. Corinne headed toward the back, hugging the gin bottle. Ada reached over to pluck it from her arms and, ignoring Corinne’s indignant protests, handed it back to Danny.
“Thanks, Ada,” Danny said. “Give your ma my regards.”
“Will do, Danny.”
Ada saluted the bartender and tugged a still-protesting Corinne through the doorway at the other end of the hall. The narrow stairs went down half a level to the storage room, which was stacked with crates of liquor, boxes of dry goods, and anything else that had been shoved there and forgotten. That included Gordon Calloway, who was two hundred-odd pounds of sunflower seeds stuffed into a cheap suit. He spent eight hours a day sitting in a wooden chair in the storage room and was paid handsomely to do it.
“Johnny’s waiting in his office,” he said, spitting out a sunflower seed.
“Why yes, Gordon, my day has been swell. Thanks for asking,” said Corinne.
Ada elbowed her, but Gordon just grunted. Corinne went past Gordon to the wall in the corner of the room. She pressed against the wood paneling with one hand, and a section of it swung inward, revealing a flight of rickety steps that led all the way to the basement. When Ada had first come there, it had taken her days to find the right panel with any accuracy. She was still embarrassed thinking about the number of times Gordon had watched her out of the corner of his eye while she fumbled across the wall.
The only light in the stairwell emanated from the base, but Ada knew every step instinctively. The living quarters where Johnny Dervish’s chosen few hung their hats were cramped and a little musty, but no one had ever complained. There was a central common room with a ratty couch, floral armchairs, and a coffee table— usually piled with sheet music, books, and half-finished bottles of whiskey or gin.