Page 64 of His Girl Hollywood
“Because…he’s good with a sword?”
“That’s just in the movies!” Joan, Arlene, and Flynn proclaimed all at once. It cut the tension in the room, and they all broke out into a warm burble of laughter. As they caught their breath, they reached for refreshments and sipped at their coffee. Arlene’s mother joined them at the table, and Flynn raised his coffee cup in her direction. “Compliments to the chef.”
Pauline blushed deeply. Arlene knew that her mother had a soft spot for Flynn Banks. She liked his accent and his swashbuckling pictures. “It’s nothing.”
Flynn grinned, as he leaned down to take another sip, the irresistible smile of a scoundrel. “No, I mean it, Mrs. Morgan. You’ve ruined me for all other women. How could I get married when I know I’ll never find a girl who cooks like you?”
“You aren’t ever gonna get married anyway.” Dash cuffed his pal on the back of the head, causing Flynn to splash his shirt with coffee. He reached for a napkin and glared at Dash. Dash shrugged as if to sayWhat? You know it’s true.
Arlene wished that circumstances were normal and she could appreciate this. Her friends; her mother, who was going to be fine; a scoundrel; and a squeaky stranger, laughing, having coffee, and filling this house with the love and warmth that had once been its singular defining feature. Since her father had died, these moments had been fewer and farther between. But now there were more pressing things to attend to. “We need a plan. The longer we wait, the worse Frankie could hurt Don.”
Eleanor nodded fearfully. “He said he would make sure Don couldn’t dance if he wasn’t gonna dance for him no more.”
All the color drained from Joan’s face. “What is this, a Jimmy Cagney movie? Jesus H. Christ.” Then, she winced and looked apologetically at Arlene’s mother. “Sorry, Mrs. Morgan, for swearing.”
Pauline waved her hand, clearly unfussed. She lookedthoughtful. “I think the solution is obvious.” The entire table looked at her expectantly. “You will have to rescue him.”
“Us?” Flynn sputtered.
Pauline shrugged. “Why not? You have rescued people before.” Arlene could tell her mother was getting frustrated because the lilt of her Irish brogue came out when she was excited or upset.
Arlene laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “Mama, that’s in the movies. Make-believe, you know.”
“You think I’m a daffy old woman who doesn’t know the difference between reality and make-believe?” Pauline huffed. “I know it’s not real. But that doesn’t mean you all haven’t practiced these things. That you don’t each have special talents that are perfect for a moment like this. Joan, you could act your way through anything. Convince a sunburnt sheikh that it was raining in the middle of the desert. Dash, you were a cowboy, yes? You know how to lasso things, tie knots in a rope, all sorts of things.” Dash nodded, a bit stunned, as if he’d forgotten. “Flynn, just because your sword usually has a blunt tip doesn’t mean you don’t know how to wield a weapon.” Flynn smirked, looking as if he was holding in a saucy retort. But Dash gave him a look and then Flynn merely sipped his coffee with an air of nonchalance. “Lena, you’ve been plotting and planning things to perfection since you were old enough to talk. And Eleanor—”
The hoofer looked at Mrs. Morgan expectantly, waiting to hear what her special talent and role in Don’s rescue might be. Pauline looked Eleanor Lester up and down, taking in her narrow waist, blond tresses, cupid’s bow pout, and artfully displayed décolletage. “You, my dear, are the perfect distraction.”
Arlene raised her eyebrows at her mother in warning, but Eleanor puffed up her chest, smiled, and did a little dance in her chair. Clearly, she was pleased with Pauline’s assessment, even if it was a bit rude.
“Mama, even if all of that is true, we don’t know what we’re dealing with. They could have guns. And we don’t know what warehouse he’s in. Or if he’s there at all. We might not even be able to get inside once we’re down there.”
Pauline waved her hand, as if there were an easy solution. “Go look in the desk over there. There might be something that can help you.” Arlene got up and did as her mother suggested. When Don’s parents died, the Morgans had bought the other side of the duplex and knocked down the wall in between. Michael Lazzarini’s desk still sat in the far corner of the front room. Some of her mother’s sewing things had made their way onto the desk, and Bill had left out a sketch for a new engine for the boat.
“Open the drawer,” Pauline called out. Arlene pulled the bottom right drawer out. It was deep, dusty, and dark, but she could see a roll of papers lining the bottom. They looked like blueprints. She pulled them out and unrolled them, taking in the words printed carefully on the top. They were the designs for the entire cannery facility—the warehouses, the cafeteria, the canning assembly line in the packinghouse, the cleaning facility located beneath the chute that carried the fish directly from the boats at the dock into the factory. All of it was here in blue ink.
Arlene carried them back to the living room and unfurled them across the table, while Joan and Dash hurriedly swept the plates of cookies out of the way, using the Morgans’ blue willow dishes to pin down the corners of the drawings.
“How did you get these?” Arlene asked her mother.
Pauline shrugged. “Michael left them. I thought they might be useful someday. More for Bill than for you. You probably don’t remember, but Don’s father picked up extra maintenance jobs at the cannery here and there. Needed the blueprints to fix things.”
Arlene looked down at the documents in disbelief. Here inintricate detail was everything they needed to know about where they could get in—and, more importantly, out—to rescue Don. They didn’t know where he was yet, but they could narrow it down. Maybe if she called Bill, he could help. Tell them if he’d noticed any funny business at the docks when he’d taken the boat out for the day.
She looked at the plans and chuckled. She couldn’t help herself.
“What’s so funny?” Eleanor squeaked.
“These. Don’s father always told him that if he became a dancer, he’d never help him a day in his life. And now look.” Arlene gestured at the blueprints, marveling at this small miracle that Michael Lazzarini had left for his only son. Unwittingly proving his savior and the only thing that might ensure Don could keep dancing. Arlene couldn’t have scripted it better herself.
Chapter 25
Don thought it was probably close to dawn based on the fact that the warehouse was no longer pitch-black inside. His wrists were raw from the rope that Frankie’s goons had knotted around them, and his shoulders ached from being tied to a chair with his arms pinned behind his back. He was struggling not to gag on the piece of cloth they’d tied in his mouth, which was now soaked in his own blood from the cut inside his cheek.
But none of that could compare to the stench. It reeked of tuna and sardines and the sweat of men. It was the smell of his father’s hands and hair. A smell that had permeated their home and tainted every good memory Don had of his childhood, few as they were. He’d promised himself that nothing in his life would ever smell like this again. But he was sure that the stench hung heavy on him now, like a shroud.
Based on the state of the warehouse, nothing had been stored here in at least a few weeks, but the smell lingered like the ghost of a rotten corpse. Frankie had insured Don could only breathe through his nose, thanks to the gag in his mouth. Don had to hand it to him. Frankie Martino was a thug who used his rough charm and his muscle to get what he wanted. Smarts weren’t exactly the lug’s strong suit. In spite of that, Frankie had found the worst place on God’s green earth to stick Don. And he hadn’t been kiddingabout the fishing season. Usually at this time of year, this warehouse would’ve been filled with boxes and workers packing fish day and night.
Based on the pattern of the light peeking through the doorjamb, Don didn’t think he’d been here over forty-eight hours. But he was already nearing his breaking point. The only thing keeping him from losing it was the soft pressure of the lucky penny in his pocket, pushing into his thigh. Ha. Was Frankie and everything that had happened to him since he moved to New York lucky? He could feel the edge of the coin. It must’ve moved around in his scuffle with the goons. Lucky. But he’d keep that penny until his last breath. Because it made him think of Arlene. Of their date last night. Or the night before? He didn’t know anymore. What must she have thought when he hadn’t shown up to set the next day? Probably that it confirmed every bad thought she’d ever had about him. He couldn’t blame her really. If the shoe was on the other foot, he would’ve thought the same thing.