“Twenty-two going on eighty-nine,” Maks teased, grabbing for the full glass. “I’ll take his.”

“You could learn from Viktor’s work ethic,” Grygoriy told his son.

“Last I checked, Father, I had three homo clubs, and you have none,” Maks sassed, drawing a punch in the arm from Grygoriy.

“You’re lucky my brother is a pleasant drunk, Maks,” my father said. “Perhaps we are both lucky for that.”

Having had enough of the dysfunctional dynamics for one evening, I headed into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. Though the thought of my father and Aunt Kat having a love affair made my stomach turn, I couldn’t stop myself from being curious about what had happened between them. Fortunately, I was blessed with a cousin who had a big mouth when it didn’t count and tight lips when it did. I would urge Maks to abandon his discretion in the morning, at least about old family flames.

6

December 1930

I had been haunted before, not by a ghost but by a feeling. It didn’t happen often, though it was pervasive and bone-chilling when it did. It wasn’t nostalgia as much as the presence of dread, a cumbersome apprehension of things to come, things I could not put my finger on but anticipated nonetheless. Perhaps it was the fact that my walk through Towertown was darker than the year prior that had me troubled. An area of the city that had been decked with lights was dim, and I feared it was a sign of the times. Maybe Igor and the calamitous crash conversation weren’t far off.

The Gallery on State, however, was packed with people decked out in their New Year’s best, a sea of sequins draped on men and women alike. Prisms of light bounced off the fancy frocks, casting rays of rainbows over happy faces while bodies moved like undulating waves to the Negro jazz performer on the stage. The room was alive with an erratic energy, with patrons so intent on letting loose that their focus was oppressive, like time was slipping away and they were clawing to capture it. It was the first time I’d felt the winds of economic worry that whipped outside the walls of the club crack through the mortar and find their way inside.

I walked toward the bar, where Abraham was slinging drinks, handsome as ever. “What’s going on, Egg?” I greeted, shaking his hand.

“Vik!” he exclaimed, smiling wide. “I’m glad you made it. You don’t come around enough for fun anymore.” He flipped a glass, filled it with ice, and poured the Canadian Club from a few feet above it, letting the whiskey splash out of the cup without a worry.

“I’ve been busy,” I stated, gesturing toward the crowd. “It seems like you have been too.”

Abraham winked. “Let’s get you zozzled.”

I didn’t protest.