“You’ve got the Ava Gardner thing going with the face and the dimensions, but those clothes—” He tutted. “Besides, he’s got a buck-toothed blonde rubbing carpets thin for him these days.”

My stomach dropped at that, but I didn’t say anything. Just because the affair was an open secret didn’t mean Klein wouldn’t pay—it only meant I’d have to work that much harder at crafting the right pitch. I shuffled it away—I’d consider that when I had hauled Ellen out of here by the frizz of her hair. I eyed the vodka bottle he was swirling and decided he wouldn’t remember me the next day anyway. “You know Ellen Howard? My little sister. Frizzy blonde hair, about five-six, follows directions like she aced kennel school? Seen her tonight?” Instead of answering, he pushed the bottle up to my face. I grimaced and knocked it away. “Christ, get a grip.”

“I have something you could grip,” Wexler said, grinning.

I looked around, but nobody else even acknowledged my existence. Instead, I caught the low hush of murmurs from deeper in the tomb, voices moving like shadows. I walked away from Wexler without saying goodbye, leaving him calling after me. I crept forward, hoping I wasn’t going to find Ellen’s sweating palms pawing at the crotch of Klein’s son in front of the old man himself.

Thursday, a few more days, that was all I needed. I was so close to paying the Lady back, to getting the money for the police. I held my breath with each click of my shoes against the marble. I had to keep her going until Thursday.

I got lucky. In front of Bugsy Siegel’s tomb—covered in Tropicana pink and coral kisses—old man Klein was flanked by a tiny army of wannabe movie babes. No Junior or Ellen in sight.

“So tacky,” said one of two Harlow-blonde hussies.

“Early in the night for it,” agreed a squinch-faced brunette—pretty in a knockoff-Audrey sort of way. She’d be catnip for marks who wanted to consider themselves American blueblood royalty—yachters, polo players, the country-club set. I shook the thought away. Klein, self-satisfied master of the universe, was rhythmically petting her head like she was a puppy, while the peroxide twins pouted prettily, preening for attention and giving the squat old man all their power. Nothing personal, ladies, I wanted to say, my knees weak with relief. He’s already got a blonde.

Who wasn’t anywhere in sight. I turned to go—Ellen was still out there somewhere, canoodling; it was only a matter of time before someone spotted her—but Klein’s voice stopped me dead.

“Who the hell are you?”