Read Online The Girls at the Kingfisher Club by Genevieve Valentine - Free Book Online Page B

so they wouldn’t lose them during the Charleston, and met the waiting men.
    It was home as the band struck up a tune nearly as old as Violet, and the sisters sighed and smiled at each other and clapped before they took their partners’ arms, moving under the lights in sharp, glittering strikes, because there was nothing like old times.
    It was home, until that night, when the cops came.

eight
    That's What I Call a Pal
    The cops burst in just after a quickstep.
    Most of the sisters were making their way back to the table. The sisters who abstained from the quickstep (Araminta and Lily) were at the bar, and Jo was in her place, watching them move through the room.
    Their booth was the same one they’d had since the beginning—close to the back door that led out the alley to the street. It had become Jo’s favorite table ever since those first days; men knew to look for them there, and Jake always managed to keep it for them, somehow.
    It served them well when the cops knocked down the front door.
    There were only three at first—too anxious for the score to wait for cover—and over the last brave chord from the band, two of the cops fired into the air.
    One of them shouted, “Everybody on the floor!”
    â€œBeat it,” breathed Jo.
    (She knew they’d all hear, even over the chaos; she knew when they were listening.)
    The sisters scattered like leaves.
    It was a matter of seconds—Lou leading a contingent out the back door, Jake shoving Araminta and Lily and Violet into the cellar tunnel. Sophie, who’d been dancing with an older gentleman they’d known for years, got hustled out under his arm like his daughter or his wife.
    They were all so good at disappearing that the only one of them left, when the dust cleared and the cops had flooded the room, was Jo.
    By the time she was sure the others were safe, it was too late to run. They had a cop stationed outside the back door, and she wasn’t about to try anything with cops.
    There was nothing to do but stay in the booth with her hands in plain sight and watch as the Kingfisher’s patrons, staff, and musicians got arrested one by one.
    It seemed, at least, to be a business-hearted affair rather than someone in the precinct setting an example. Jo knew about raids that went sour. (Salon Renaud was dust.) This was just reminding a delinquent about payment due.
    There were no shots fired after the first warning round, and they were taken out by tables rather than dragged to this side or that side of the room. Most of the women were brought out without handcuffs, and aside from a few unnecessary comments to the prettiest, there wasn’t much roughhousing. Even Jake got by with only two or three clobbers, when he didn’t take the stairs fast enough to please the cop escorting him.
    (Still, Jo watched them carefully—she could guess what the police were like when they knew they could get away with it.)
    Eventually, an overgrown boy in a police uniform stopped by Jo’s table (gun in the holster).
    â€œMiss, you’re under arrest for—for imbibing.”
    Imbibing. She debated a crack about arresting everyone in New York who’d ever had a drink of water.
    Then she thought what would happen to her if she disappeared for mouthing off to a cop, and she couldn’t get word to the others, and her father came looking for her.
    When she stood and offered her wrists, he flushed; instead, he kept his hand hovering just above her elbow as he escorted her outside.
    She risked a glance under the streetlights—someone might have stayed behind to look for her—but she didn’t see anyone.
    Panic rose in her throat. She forced it back. If the others weren’t within sight, it was because they were out of reach of the police, already on their way home.
    â€œI’m really sorry about this,” the young officer said as he passed Jo into the police van with the dozen other women who