Out of the Easy

  Out

  of the

  Easy

  Ruta Sepetys

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For Mom,

  who always put her children first.

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group.

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd,

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  Copyright © 2013 by Ruta Sepetys.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat & Tm. Off. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sepetys, Ruta. Out of the Easy / Ruta Sepetys. p. cm.

  Summary: Josie, the seventeen-year-old daughter of a French Quarter prostitute, is striving to escape 1950 New Orleans and enroll at prestigious Smith College when she becomes entangled in a murder investigation. [1. Conduct of life—Fiction. 2. Prostitition—Fiction. 3. Murder—Fiction. 4. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 5. New Orleans (La.)—History—20th century—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title. PZ7.S47957Out 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012016062

  ISBN 978-1-101-60780-0

  There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.

  —Sir Francis Bacon

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  My mother’s a prostitute. Not the filthy, streetwalking kind. She’s actually quite pretty, fairly well spoken, and has lovely clothes. But she sleeps with men for money or gifts, and according to the dictionary, that makes her a prostitute.

  She started working in 1940 when I was seven, the year we moved from Detroit to New Orleans. We took a cab from the train station straight to a fancy hotel on St. Charles Avenue. Mother met a man from Tuscaloosa in the lobby while having a drink. She introduced me as her niece and told the man she was delivering me to her sister. She winked at me constantly and whispered that she’d buy me a doll if I just played along and waited for her. I slept alone in the lobby that night, dreaming of my new doll. The next morning, Mother checked us in to our own big room with tall windows and small round soaps that smelled like lemon. She received a green velvet box with a strand of pearls from the man from Tuscaloosa.

  “Josie, this town is going to treat us just fine,” said Mother, standing topless in front of the mirror, admiring her new pearls.

  The next day, a dark-skinned driver named Cokie arrived at the hotel. Mother had received an invitation to visit someone important in the Quarter. She made me take a bath and insisted I put on a nice dress. She even put a ribbon in my hair. I looked silly, but I didn’t say anything to Mother. I just smiled and nodded.

  “Now, Josie, you aren’t to say a thing. I’ve been hoping Willie would call for me, and I don’t need you messing things up with your stubbornness. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. And for gosh sakes, don’t start that humming. It’s spooky when you do that. If you’re good, I’ll buy you something real special.”

  “Like a doll?” I said, hoping to jog her memory.

  “Sure, hon, would you like a doll?” she said, finishing her sweep of lipstick and kissing the air in front of the mirror.

  Cokie and I hit it off right away. He drove an old taxicab painted a foggy gray. If you looked close, you could see the ghost of taxi lettering on the door. He gave me a couple Mary Jane candies and a wink that said, “Hang in there, kiddo.” Cokie whistled through the gaps in his teeth as he drove us to Willie’s in his taxicab. I hummed along, hoping the molasses from the Mary Jane might yank out a tooth. That was the second night we were in New Orleans.

  We pulled to a stop on Conti Street. “What is this place?” I asked, craning my neck to look at the pale yellow building with black lattice balconies.

  “It’s her house,” said Cokie. “Willie Woodley’s.”

  “Her house? But Willie’s a man’s name,” I said.

  “Stop it, Josie. Willie is a woman’s name. Now, keep quiet!” said Mother, smacking my thigh. She smoothed her dress and fidgeted with her hair. “I didn’t think I’d be so nervous,” she muttered.

  “Why are you nervous?” I asked.

  She grabbed me by the hand and yanked me up the walk. Cokie tipped his hat to me. I smiled and waved back. The sheers in the front window shifted, covering a shadowy figure lit by an amber glow behind the glass. The door opened before we reached it.

  “And you must be Louise,” a woman said to Mother. r />
  A brunette in a velvet evening dress hung against the door. She had pretty hair, but her fingernails were chewed and frayed. Cheap women had split nails. I’d learned that in Detroit.

  “She’s waitin’ for you in the parlor, Louise,” said the brunette.

  A long red carpet ran from the front door to a tall staircase, crawling up and over each step. The house was opulent, gaudy, with deep green brocades and lamps with black crystals dangling from dimly lit shades. Paintings of nude women with pink nipples hung from the foyer walls. Cigarette smoke mingled with stale Eau de Rose. We walked through a group of girls who patted my head and called me sugar and doll. I remember thinking their lips looked like someone had smeared blood all over them. We walked into the front parlor.

  I saw her hand first, veiny and pale, draped over the arm of an upholstered wingback. Her nails, glossy red like pomegranate seeds, could pop a balloon with a quick flick. Clusters of gold and diamonds adorned nearly every finger. Mother’s breathing fluttered.

  I approached the hand, staring at it, making my way around the back of the chair toward the window. Black heels poked out from beneath a stiff tailored skirt. I felt the bow in my hair slide down the side of my head.

  “Hello, Louise.”

  The voice was thick and had mileage on it. Her platinum-blond hair was pulled tight in a clasp engraved with the initials W.W. The woman’s eyes, lined in charcoal, had wrinkles fringing out from the corners. Her lips were scarlet, but not bloody. She was pretty once.

  The woman stared at me, then finally spoke. “I said, ‘Hello, Louise.’”

  “Hello, Willie,” said Mother. She dragged me in front of the chair. “Willie, this is Josie.”

  I smiled and bent my scabby legs into my best curtsy. The arm with the red nails quickly waved me away to the settee across from her. Her bracelet jangled a discordant tune.

  “So . . . you’ve returned.” Willie lifted a cigarette from a mother-of-pearl case and tapped it softly against the lid.

  “Well, it’s been a long time, Willie. I’m sure you can understand.”

  Willie said nothing. A clock on the wall swung a ticktock rhythm. “You look good,” Willie finally said, still tapping the cigarette against its case.

  “I’m keeping myself,” said Mother, leaning back against the settee.

  “Keeping yourself . . . yes. I heard you had a greenhorn from Tuscaloosa last night.”

  Mother’s back stiffened. “You heard about Tuscaloosa?”

  Willie stared, silent.

  “Oh, he wasn’t a trick, Willie,” said Mother, looking into her lap. “He was just a nice fella.”

  “A nice fella who bought you those pearls, I guess,” said Willie, tapping her cigarette harder and harder against the case.

  Mother’s hand reached up to her neck, fingering the pearls.

  “I’ve got good business,” said Willie. “Men think we’re headed to war. If that’s true, everyone will want their last jollies. We’d work well together, Louise, but . . .” She nodded in my direction.

  “Oh, she’s a good girl, Willie, and she’s crazy smart. Even taught herself to read.”

  “I don’t like kids,” she spat, her eyes boring a hole through me.

  I shrugged. “I don’t like ’em much either.”

  Mother pinched my arm, hard. I felt the skin snap. I bit my lip and tried not to wince. Mother became angry when I complained.

  “Really?” Willie continued to stare. “So what do you do . . . if you don’t like kids?”

  “Well, I go to school. I read. I cook, clean, and I make martinis for Mother.” I smiled at Mother and rubbed my arm.

  “You clean and make martinis?” Willie raised a pointy eyebrow. Her sneer suddenly faded. “Your bow is crooked, girl. Have you always been that skinny?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well for a few years,” said Mother quickly. “Josie is very resourceful, and—”

  “I see that,” said Willie flatly, still tapping her cigarette.

  I moved closer to Mother. “I skipped first grade altogether and started in the second grade. Mother lost track I was supposed to be in school—” Mother’s toe dug into my ankle. “But it didn’t matter much. She told the school we had transferred from another town, and I just started right in second grade.”

  “You skipped the first grade?” said Willie.

  “Yes, ma’am, and I don’t figure I missed anything at all.”

  “Don’t ma’am me, girl. You’ll call me Willie. Do you understand?” She shifted in her chair. I spied what looked like the butt of a gun stuffed down the side of the seat cushion.

  “Yes, Mrs. Willie,” I replied.

  “Not Mrs. Willie. Just Willie.”

  I stared at her. “Actually, Willie, I prefer Jo, and honestly, I don’t much care for bows.” I pulled the ribbon from my thick brown bob and reached for the lighter on the table.

  “I didn’t ask for a light,” said Willie.

  “No, but you’ve tapped your cigarette fifty-three times . . . now fifty-four, so I thought you might like to smoke it.”

  Willie sighed. “Fine, Jo, light my cigarette and pour me a Scotch.”

  “Neat or on the rocks?” I asked.

  Her mouth opened in surprise, then snapped shut. “Neat.” She eyed me as I lit her cigarette.

  “Well, Louise,” said Willie, a long exhale of smoke curling above her head, “you’ve managed to mess things up royal, now, haven’t you?”

  Mother sighed.

  “You can’t stay here, not with a child. You’ll have to get a place,” said Willie.

  “I don’t have any money,” said Mother.

  “Sell those pearls to my pawn in the morning and you’ll have some spending money. There’s a small apartment on Dauphine that one of my bookies was renting. The idiot went and got himself shot last week. He’s taking a dirt nap and won’t need the place. The rent is paid until the thirtieth. I’ll make some arrangements, and we’ll see where you are at the end of the month.”

  “All right, Willie,” said Mother.

  I handed Willie the drink and sat back down, nudging the bow under the settee with my foot.

  She took a sip and nodded. “Honestly, Louise, a seven-year-old bartender?”

  Mother shrugged.

  That was ten years ago. She never did buy me the doll.

  TWO

  They thought I couldn’t hear their whispers, their snickers. I had heard them for ten years. I cut across Conti toward Chartres, clutching my book under my arm. The vibration of my humming blocked out the sound. Courtesan, harlot, hooker, whore. I’d heard them all. In fact, I could look at someone and predict which one they’d use.

  “Hello, Josie,” they’d say with a half smile, followed by a sigh and sometimes a shake of the head. They acted like they felt sorry for me, but as soon as they were ten steps away, I’d hear one of the words, along with my mother’s name. The wealthy women pretended it singed their tongue to say whore. They’d whisper it and raise their eyebrows. Then they’d fake an expression of shock, like the word itself had crawled into their pants with a case of the clap. They didn’t need to feel sorry for me. I was nothing like Mother. After all, Mother was only half of the equation.

  “Josie! Wait up, Yankee girl.”

  Frankie, one of Willie’s information men, was at my side, his tall, slinky frame bending over mine. “What’s the rush?” he asked, licking his fingers and smoothing his greased hair.

  “I have to get to the bookshop,” I said. “I’m late for work.”

  “Sheesh, what would ol’ man Marlowe do without you? You spoonin’ him applesauce these days? I hear he’s just about dead.”

  “He’s very much alive, Frankie. He’s just . . . retired.” I shot him a look.

  “Ooh,
defensive. You got something goin’ with Marlowe?”

  “Frankie!” What a horrible thought. Charlie Marlowe was not only ancient, he was like family.

  “Or maybe you got a thing for his son, is that it? You got eyes on looping with Junior so you can inherit that dusty book nook you love so well?” He elbowed me, laughing.

  I stopped walking. “Can I help you with something, Frankie?”

  He pulled me onward, his voice low. “Actually, yeah. Can you tell Willie that word on my side is that Cincinnati’s comin’ down?”

  A chill ran beneath the surface of my skin. I tried to keep my step steady. “Cincinnati?”

  “Can you let her know, Josie?”

  “I won’t see Willie till morning, you know that,” I said.

  “You still not going near the place after dark? Such a smart one, you are. Well, give her word Cincinnati’s around. She’ll want to know.”

  “I hope I don’t forget,” I said, opening my palm.

  “Oooh. Beggar woman!”

  “Businesswoman,” I corrected him. “Remember, Willie doesn’t like surprises.”

  “No, she don’t,” he said, digging in his pocket. “What do you do with all this bank, Josie? Be a lot easier if you just lifted your skirt.”

  “The only reason I’d lift my skirt is to pull out my pistol and plug you in the head.”

  My money was none of Frankie’s business. I was getting out of New Orleans. My plan included bus fare and cash reserves to cover a full year of living expenses, enough time to get me on my feet. A business book I read in the shop said that it was always best to have at least twelve months’ savings. Once I had the money, I’d decide where to go.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “You know I’m only joking.”

  “Why don’t you just buy a book from me at the shop, Frankie?”

  “You know I don’t like to read, Yankee girl. Don’t think anyone likes to read as much as you do. What you got under your arm this time?”

  “E. M. Forster.”

  “Never heard of it.” He grabbed my hand and dropped some coins in my palm. “There, now don’t forget to tell her. I won’t get paid if you forget.”