Page 22 of Savannah Royals
WhenwereachCarousel,the outdoor saloon is lit up spectacularly. There are more than twenty public squares throughout the city of Savannah, and the old-time carousel that gives the bar its name is central to this one. An intrepid entrepreneur saw potential in the children’s ride, long since abandoned and rusted out, restoring and converting it into an after-hours money-making machine.
Paul takes my hand as we amble to the nearest bar. There are two of them, carved into opposite sides of the carousel itself. Traditional mirrors and big white bulb lights twinkle overhead, moths fluttering lazily in their wake. Gold trim is everywhere, flaking slightly from direct and constant exposure to the bayou’s humidity. Several adventurous patrons swing themselves up on wooden horses as they sip their drinks. Others dance to the beat of live jazz music streaming from a pair of dueling trumpet and saxophone players in the square. Their instrument cases, open at their feet, swim with bills.
“Kat?” Tony leans over Paul’s shoulder. “Kat, what do you want?”
“A martini.”
“Rockefeller’s drink?” Paul murmurs, nuzzling me. “You have expensive taste tonight, m’lady.”
I shrug and point at my reflection above the bar. “She’s making the decisions, not me.”
Abe shoulders around us to distribute drinks. He gives Paul his signature old-fashioned, then passes over my martini. His gaze lingers on me as he hands off the glass. Tony pulls back from the bar with two beers, one for himself and one for Abe.
“Cheers, Royals.” Paul tips his drink in.
Two martinis later, I start to dance in the square with the other revelers. I take turns pulling in Paul, Abe, and Tony, one by one. Each boy humors me for a few minutes before returning to the bar. Tony is by far the best dancer, but even he doesn’t linger tonight. He departs as soon as the final notes of our tango fade, off to chase a skirt on the opposite side of the bar. In his absence, I assess my prospects. Paul leans casually on the counter with Abe, watching for my next move. It doesn’t take long to attract a groping pair of hands on my hips.
“What are you drinking?” a deep voice murmurs in my ear.
“A martini,” I tell my stranger.
Two minutes later, one magically appears in my hand. Such spectacular service.
I subtly tip the glass and wink in Paul and Abe’s direction, eliciting laughs as I continue dancing with my mystery man. After a few minutes, however, his hands start wandering, and I decide to take my leave. If it’s not Paul, Abe, or Tony, I’m quick to bore. Besides, Paul’s eyebrows are lowering with each passing moment. Abe’s too.
I turn to smile politely at my new friend, gripping his wrists to hold them still. “Thanks for the drink,” I tell him, “but I need to take a dance break.”
“Wanna go somewhere?” he murmurs, sliding his right hand behind my neck.
Really, really no.“Thanks for the drink,” I repeat and pull away.
He makes one more attempt, reaching out to grab my wrist. Possessive.
Abe rises from the bar, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He of all people knows I can handle myself. It’s why Paul hasn’t moved from his perch.
“Come on now. I bought you a drink,” the fella protests.
The Academy-bred lady inside me shrinks, but the wolf never does. And the wolf always wins.
“Yes, you bought a drink. You didn’t buyme.” I narrow my eyes, pointedly, dangerously, before twisting my wrist to break free. “Enjoy your night.”
I trot back to the guys as Paul signals the bartender. “Another martini?”
While I wait, I reach over and take a sip of Abe’s beer. I hand it back and lick my lips as he swallows the dregs. He holds his fingers up for the barmaid. She’s wildly popular tonight—it’s quite a rarity to see a woman tending bar—but she swoops over swiftly to take Abe’s order. Paul blazes up a cigarette with his silver lighter and offers me a drag.
Tony rejoins us soon after, bringing with him two tittering bayou brunettes—one for him and one, presumably, for Abe. One of the women is smoking a hash joint. She offers us all a hit. Paul and I decline, but Abe and Tony accept. Paul smokes the occasional cigarette, but he never messes with street drugs. Not ever. Says he’s seen more than enough of that in the Catacombs. It’s something of a silent agreement between the two of us, a blood pact sworn the day he found me beside my mother’s body. We don’t use; we don’t deal. The Wolfpack will never feed that particular appetite of Savannah’s black market.
We chat as a group for a short while before Tony decides he wants to go underground.
In the center of the merry-go-round, there’s a trapdoor, a portal to the dark side of Carousel—a hidden speakeasy. Whispers run rampant through the streets of Savannah about the looming threat of the temperance movement. The amendment has been ratified. Prohibition is coming, sure asthe tide of 1920, and make no mistake, the city saloons are preparing for war. Already cellars are being quietly converted, expanded, and trialed as liquor dens and dance halls. For those in the know, of course…and for those willing to look the other way. If there’s anything my upbringing has taught me, it’s that the black market will always find a way to keep turning. And those bluenoses who run the American Congress are fools if they expect anything less.
The temperature in Carousel’s cellar is a refreshing ten degrees cooler than aboveground. The Savannah humidity becomes a distant memory, but the air down here is heavily laden with smoke. There’s a dark, velveteen bar along one wall. Faint echoes of the live music percolate from above.
It’s nearly wall-to-wall bodies down here tonight, either gyrating to the beat or crowding the lone bartender for his finest hooch. Tony jumps into the fray with the two brunettes. I lose them in the smoky haze within minutes.
“It’s packed like a can o’ sardines down here tonight. You wanna dance? Or should we go back out?” Paul speaks the words directly into my ear.
“Tony’s in there.” I point to the mob.
