Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

08 | Jailhouse Rock

"Here I am with you in a world of blue, and we're dancing to the tango that we loved when we first met..." — Mitchell Parish

PAMELA TUNED OUT the Blue Tango song, serenading her from the taxi radio and focused on the picturesque view unfolding outside of the automobile window.

She had endured an exhausting first week as a salesgirl at Albright Trimmings & Co, and Caterina had told her to use her first day off to have a ball.

She knew she should be out doing something more leisurely, or at least home curled up on the sofa listening to the radio or reading a novel. Sean had even sent her an invitation to join him for lunch at the greasy spoon he was working at in Greenwich Village. He received free portions of fries after every dishwashing shift.

Instead of doing any of those things, she was visiting the New York Police Department. She had an appointment with someone named Joseph Marino, or Sergeant Marino, to report what she had seen and heard in the alleyway, as well as her run-in with Johnny.

"This it Ma'am?" The portly cab driver dialled down the radio, drumming his stubby pink fingers on the dashboard.

Pamela peered up at a stone fortress, constructed in the style of a huge Romanesque palace. "Yes, this is my stop. Thanks for the ride."

"Hope you're not in any trouble." The cab driver cast Pamela a knowing look and tipped his hat to her. "You around bad types of people much?"

"Thank you," Pamela repeated redundantly, ignoring his nosy speculation.

"A pretty little thing like you shouldn't be hanging around a place like this, with crooks and criminals of the worst kind." The cab driver warned, examining her without concern for coming across as intrusive.

After redundantly thanking him for the third time, Pamela handed her driver a crumpled bill she had stuffed in her jacket pocket and stepped out of the cab, her short heels ramming into the hard concrete.

Pamela had dressed in a little black gown to compliment her willowy frame, accompanied by a string of white pearls and the reddest of lipsticks she could find. She tied her cornflower yellow hair above her head in a fashionable knot, and thick, dark lashes offset her green eyes. She was the prettiest she could ever be, she decided, and a well-kept appearance might benefit her today.

The damsel in distress was always the one to be rescued in the end, after all.

Pamela sucked in a breath.

She had never been to the police station before.

When she was in grade school, her mother had accused a young housemaid of stealing an antique Italian vase from the living room, but it was later recovered behind the sofa, where Pamela and her elder sister Cecelia had been playing tea party. Caroline had dismissed the maid, anyway.

When she thought about it long and hard, she realized her mother had possessed some kind of affinity for accusing people of things they hadn't done. Silverware and diamond-studded jewellery were all steadily misplaced and then recovered, with Caroline complaining that the servants weren't to be trusted. Whenever they went on vacation, she would insist the hotel's front desk guard her jewels—though always said something was missing at the end of their stay. In turn, she gained notoriety as the wealthy socialite who cried wolf.

Could Caroline's habit make Pamela seem less trustworthy? Would the cops even believe her?

Pamela shrugged the thought off as she entered the waiting room of the police station. After telling the secretary that she had an appointment, she sat down in a burgundy armchair, gazing up at the plaster ceiling.