“The very best things are old,” she said. “And we let nothing grow old here.”
“Old things take extra care. Sometimes . . . it’s better to start fresh.”
She frowned up at him.
“What?” he said, smirking at her stormy expression.
“Of course things of value take extra care. That’s what gives them their value . . . we care about them. Starting fresh sounds like an excuse to not care.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Dani Flanagan.”
“Nobody cared about them.”
“What are we talking about now?” he asked gently. “Are we back to square one? Unhappy people?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Unhappy people that nobody cares about.”
“Nobody? You mean me? Or Eliot? Or just the whole rotten system called life?”
“The whole rotten system. How do you make people care?”
“You can’t.”
“Then how do we, at the very least, make things more equitable?” she said.
“Equity is impossible. There is inequity in all things.”
“Why can’t you just agree with me, Michael?” she asked, and he laughed.
“Because it’s actually comforting when you think about it. Much more comforting than whining about fairness,” he said.
“I’m not whining.”
“Humans are complex creatures. We want to belong, but we can’t stand to be the same. How in the world do you force equity on humankind, when we try at every turn to differentiate ourselves from each other? You can do things others cannot, Dani. Where is the equity in that?”
“Maybe the equity is that every gift has a price. I’ve certainly paid it.”
“Ah. Now you’re talking. Now you’re on the trolley,” he said, nodding. “Everything has a price.”
They walked in companionable silence for another minute.
“Do you think we might get something to eat? I’m so hungry,” she asked, her voice plaintive, and he was mortified that he hadn’t thought to ask. The poor thing was running on empty, and he’d been mindlessly yapping.
“Yeah. Sure.” He looked around at the dark facades and the shuttered businesses. “But where?”
“Short Vincent isn’t far,” she said, hopeful. “In fact, it’s just ahead, isn’t it?”
“You want me to take you to Short Vincent?” he scoffed. Short Vincent, the street between East Sixth and East Ninth, was a single city block where Clevelanders of influence but not innocence went to play. The stretch of bawdy businesses—burlesque shows, gambling halls, and beer joints—was infused with money from more respectable operations, giving the crass an uptown veneer. It catered to a certain kind of guy and doll, but sprinkled in with the gin joints and the dancing girls was good food and lots of it. At the Coney Island Café, you could eat fried eggs and jelly toast at any hour, and they would just keep bringing it. His stomach rumbled at the thought. Dani heard it.
“The Theatrical Grill opened last year with all kinds of big acts and real-life stars. Frank Sinatra himself sang there.”
“It’s a Friday night. We’ll never get a seat at a joint like that,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’ll buy you a plate of eggs and a coffee at Coney Island.”
He’d been right about the crowds. He picked up his pace, pulling Dani alongside him, and claimed a booth at Coney Island, right beside the Roxy Theater, seconds before the place was overrun.
“We’ll have the house special,” he said to the harried waitress, who nodded, not even bothering to write it down. It was the standard fare, and it was thirty-nine cents flat, no matter how many times you asked for more.
“Of course you will,” the woman said. “Coming right up.”
“You’ve been here before,” Dani said, her eyes scanning the teeming café. Her back was straight—Zuzana would have approved—and she kept her hands in her lap. She stood out like a sore thumb, and he felt his first twinge of unease.
“Yeah. I’ve been here before.” He’d downed three plates of eggs waiting for Maxie Diamond—a Cleveland gangster and racketeer Irey had been sniffing at—to come out of the Roxy. Malone had just finished up the Lindbergh case and was brought in last minute; Irey though he might need a “gangster” for the job. Two days later, the sting was dropped, and Irey sent him to the Bahamas. Malone hadn’t complained, but the outgoing Ohio governor had commuted the sentence of one of Diamond’s boys on his last day in office, and Malone had wondered if some kind of deal had been struck. It wouldn’t surprise him. It was the kind of stuff he tried not to think about. If he thought too hard or looked too long, he wouldn’t be able to do his job.