Free The Girls at the Kingfisher Club by Genevieve Valentine Page A

“I’ll probably be selling her T-straps at a discount when you get there.”
    Her friend gasped. “You wouldn’t!”
    Jo wondered what shoes were so delightful that the idea of a discount was so horrifying.
    â€œI’d say she’s earned it. At least she’s smart enough not to play around close to home, which is more than I can say for myself.” Myrtle shrugged. “Get home safe, Agnes.”
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    The kind cop came back four more times. At last, Myrtle’s friend was called up.
    Then Jo was alone.
    â€œYou want to make that call now?” he asked.
    He was a middle-aged man, a career uniform (the nameplate that read CARSON was well worn). Some of the younger cops were gruff when they took a woman out, as if they were embarrassed on behalf of the boyfriends outside and were making sure the women felt suitably sorry, but Carson had walked Myrtle out to her husband’s girl.
    â€œI don’t have anyone to call,” Jo admitted.
    Officer Carson didn’t seem surprised.
    â€œWell,” he said, “the sergeant is the one who made the bust, so I can’t just shuffle you out of here off the books. He’ll have my head.”
    She was touched it had even occurred to him. “I understand.”
    He frowned and gnawed on his lower lip, where a little salt-and-pepper stubble was beginning. “Tell you what. Why don’t you sit in the lobby while I book you for your overnight stay? I’ll take my time, and you can see if a friend might be around to pay your fine.”
    It would have been a more useful trick several hours past, when people’s husbands’ mistresses were swarming the place looking to post bail left and right, but Jo was grateful for the sentiment.
    â€œThat would be lovely, thank you,” she said, and managed a smile around her sour stomach.
    The front of house was still pretty busy for four in the morning. Apparently when a man called his wife telling her he had been out drinking and dancing, it took her a while to find the energy to bail him out, and the penitents piled up.
    The place was a crush of made-up women in morning suits walking from the front desk to the collection area and back, with rumpled, sheepish men following behind.
    Officer Carson got her settled on a bench in the center of the room and said something in a low voice to the desk clerk, who seemed to be even younger than Violet. Carson hooked a thumb in her direction, then disappeared into the crowd.
    Jo smiled at him as he rounded the corner. This wasn’t quite a ticket home, but it was nicer than cuffs.
    She watched the crowd, regretting that she didn’t dance much. She was a stranger to all the men here. She’d have to hope that one of the dozens of men in love with Araminta was willing to do her a good turn in hopes it would work in his favor.
    After half an hour of scanning the room for anyone who might be inclined to part with twenty dollars for her sake, the panic began to rise in earnest.
    Oddly, without this chance she might have been more stoic (it was easy to be stoic in a cell all alone), but to look at every face and see a stranger who might have helped her, except except except , was more than she could bear after a sleepless and terrified night.
    Their father got up early, and he never hesitated when it came to business. If he called for her before the girls could disguise her absence—
    Across the precinct, someone laughed.
    It was a man’s laugh, carefree; someone who had come to rescue, rather than be rescued.
    The man was saying to the desk clerk, “What, you wanted him to pour you a drink?”
    His voice fell out of her hearing, but a moment later the desk clerk laughed, too.
    The man was wearing a long black coat and a fedora that cast shadows over his face. Between Jo and the man there was a constant stream of strangers that blocked any glimpse of his face, but something about him caught