THEY COULD HAVE stayed out all night, and what a different day Saturday might have been. Each would have slept off the hours of beefsteaks and Dover sole, crab cakes and shrimp cocktail, all of it washed down with wine and whiskey and gin in all its guises: martini, fizz, lime rickey, and gimlet. They would have awoken to the bright midday sun, taken two aspirin and a tall glass of water, and rolled toward the mercy of another hour or two of sleep. But each of them had a duty and knew it could not be ignored. Rosemary had Peggy’s wedding, which included a squirming flower girl to dress and primp for a day of best behavior. Martin had the wedding, yes, but uppermost was the reception and his very special audience of one. For all of his knocked-out joy over Michael’s safe return and Rosemary’s loveliness in that dress, he wasn’t going to bollix up his big chance with John Hammond by lugging a hangover to the show. Lilly had the studio all but packed, but no idea where she was going. Watching Rosemary and Martin had thrummed a string that ran the length of her body. They were a more Hollywood-movie version of her and Josef, but it hadn’t been that long since she’d sat with him in the Café Slavia listening to a jazz combo, their feet casually mixing it up beneath the table, just as Martin and Rosemary had done tonight. Michael had begun to miss Mr. Yeats, if only for the chance to converse, but for now had sworn off striking out on his own. He would go where the others went. And then Francis. Francis had a man to kill and that required a steady hand. As the hour grew late, an acid-edged dread gouged the pit of his stomach. He had tried to smother it in rich food, drown it in a highball, but the ache and the emptiness wouldn’t quit. Cronin would be waiting for him in the morning, but what was there left for Cronin to do? Francis had his gun and his orders. He had memorized the parade route and the timetable of the visit, and he had pulled the trigger so many times that he no longer flinched at the sound of the shot.
ROSEMARY, WHO HAD become fast friends with Lilly, wasn’t ready to say good-bye. As they stood outside the club, waiting for Martin to hail taxis for their merry band, she invited Lilly to the wedding. Lilly demurred. Even Josef at his most impish would not have put that on the list. Their interest in the excesses of the bourgeoisie extended only so far. As the first cab scudded toward the curb, Martin told Francis to give his regards to Good King George, and it struck Lilly that this was the George whom they’d mentioned in the hotel. Francis, Michael, George: Madame Eudoxia hadn’t wasted a single name. London still remained a mystery, but the no, no, nein was becoming clearer than ever. In fact, the king’s name had hit Lilly with such force that she stumbled; Rosemary caught her new friend by the arm. She saw that Lilly was shaken, and wouldn’t hear of her returning, at this hour, to the lonely, half-packed studio in the Bowery. Not when Lilly was tired and tipsy. Not when Rosemary knew about the choices that faced her in the days ahead. She announced that Lilly would spend the night at the Plaza. Francis and Michael could share one bed, or one of them could sleep on the sofa, but Lilly would have the other room to herself.
Lilly was more exhausted than she wanted to admit, and she accepted the plan with only mild protest. Ever since she had met this boy—her guest, Sir Malcolm, Michael—she had let herself be swept along by a series of signs she could only half read. Josef, her sweet historical materialist, would tell her she was losing her mind, but tonight she had dined on oysters as big as her hand, she was masquerading as a countess, and she had applauded like mad for a man who was perhaps the greatest dancer in the world. Now she was about to spend the night at the Plaza Hotel. It was almost worth returning to Prague and facing whatever the city had become just to tell the story of this night.
Before Francis ducked into the taxicab, Rosemary gave him a stern look: she had her suspicions about Sunday night with Peggy, and she didn’t want a repeat performance. She took both of Lilly’s hands in hers. Lilly leaned in, kissed her rapidly on each cheek.
“Will you write to me when you get—to wherever you go?” Rosemary said, and pressed a hastily scribbled address into Lilly’s hand. “And will you promise me that you’ll keep safe?”
Lilly slipped the address into her purse. “I promise I’ll write,” she said as she slid in next to Francis and Michael. Just before the cab pulled away from the corner, she leaned out the window, aimed the camera, and snapped a picture of Martin and Rosemary standing together, the lights of Broadway pulsing all around them.
THE PLAZA HOTEL
FRANCIS DRESSED, HIS HANDS steady. A starched white shirt with a black bow tie, the hose and garter flashes secured beneath the knee, the kilt, the trim black coatee. Only when he belted the sporran did he reach into the drawer for the revolver. As his fingers found the grip, he checked again on Michael, who slept against the edge of the bed, his head almost lost in the pillow.
Francis had not slept well, his mind spinning in circles, but it had been some comfort to have his brother in the bed. For years, they’d shared a room in Ballyrath, the two of them wedged onto narrow cots with blankets pulled to their chins against the chill of the cottage walls. All through this last night the faint, steady sound of Michael’s breathing brought on memories of those days: Francis and the other boys out in the hills, imagining themselves knights, Vikings, cowboys, Indians; baby Michael parked on a jacket at the edge of a field where Francis proved to the fat-fisted culchies that a schoolmaster’s boy could hit twice as hard as they could; or Francis spying on his father early one morning when he thought the boys were still asleep. He watched as Da removed a small box from atop a wardrobe, then sifted through stiff-backed photographs, faded envelopes bound with string, a ring too delicate for his fat fingers. He hummed a slow, sad tune to himself—this from a man who never sang—but, when he heard Mrs. Greavey approach, broke off and hastily replaced the box, returning to his usual spot at the table.