Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
In the black dress, Secret St. Rain was a sight that brought every single fiber of Wilde’s universe to a screeching halt.
“Damn,” he said.
“Is that a good damn or a bad damn?”
“I don’t know. Did I say it out loud?”
She smiled.
Yes, he did.
“Then it’s a good one.” He spun her around to get a better look and said, “Bring your license for that body. I don’t want to get arrested.”
She grabbed her purse.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later he escorted her through the front door of a smoky club called the Bokaray. Sex, sin and perfume were already thicker than the law allowed. The bodies were sardine tight and the bellies were full of alcohol. Speakers dropped whiskey-soaked jazz. That would change in half an hour when Mercedes Rain took the stage.
Everyone knew Wilde.
The men slapped him on the back.
The women planted kisses on his lips and cast sideways daggers at Secret.
“Mister Popular,” she said when they got to the bar.
Wilde went to answer but a redhead waitress behind the counter grabbed his tie and pulled him halfway across. “Bryson Wilde, you dog, you’re in love.”
He put a shocked look on his face.
“Me?”
She shook her head in wonderment. “I thought I’d never see the day.” Then to Secret, “He’s never brought a woman here before. You’re the first. I’m not saying he never left with one. I’m just saying he never brought one.”
Secret tilted her head.
“So how many has he left with?”
“In round numbers?”
“Sure.”
“Counting me or without me?”
“Either way.”
“Tons.”
Wilde put his arm around Secret’s waist and swept her into the crowd saying, “She’s just messing around.” At the stage he introduced her to a sultry blond who set a glass of white wine down long enough to hug Wilde, then Secret.
She was Mercedes Rain.
“Secret’s a blues singer,” Wilde said. “I was thinking maybe you’d let her sit in on a song.”
The woman looked at Secret.
“Sure, but if she sings anything like she looks, I’m going to need a new job.” To Secret, “How about, Lady Sings the Blues? Do you know the words to that one?”
“I do but …”
“Okay, we’ll open up the second set with you,” Mercedes said. To Wilde, “You want to take the drums on that number?”
“Sure.”
“Done then,” Mercedes said.
“No, not done,” Secret said. “I’m not a singer. I’ve never been on a stage in my life.”
“Then this will be your first time,” Mercedes said. “Good luck.”
Wilde grabbed her hand, pulled her through the crowd to the bar and ordered a white wine for her and a double Jack for himself.
Secret was confused.
“Why do you think I’m a singer?”
“Because I heard you.”
“When?”
“When I went to the bathroom this morning.”
She reflected back.
“You were singing to the radio,” he said.
Her face focused.
“You heard that?”
He downed the Jack, slammed the jigger on the bar upside down and said, “Apparently I did. Why’d you think I brought you here tonight, to get you drunk and take advantage of you?”
“Well, the thought crossed my mind.”
He ordered another Jack and said, “In that case, it looks like you were 10 percent wrong.”
She brought her mouth close to his.
Dangerously close.
Almost brushing.
Her breath was hot.
Hotter than sin.
“You’re an evil man,” she said.