HAVANA GIRLS: PROLOGUE

The ratatat of typewriter keys slowed to a halt as the clock struck the half hour. Across the hillside lights sparked to life. Like a bejeweled cape unfurling, Imogene typically thought. Not tonight. Instead she scolded herself—I can’t put this off any longer—as she absent-mindedly chewed a thumbnail. Her daughter’s letter could wait.

She checked her watch. Three-thirty back home. Time enough to catch her editor prior to the afternoon meeting. She’d been putting off this conversation for weeks, but she was filing the next day. He had to know, before her work appeared in print, she’d no intention of giving the story of the century to the St. Petersburg Press. Especially since Aggie had promised a byline in the LA Times. She couldn’t turn down that career-changer for Briggs. Scratch that. Wouldn’t. 

The only task she’d put off longer was the letter for Sally.

Touching the top plate of her Robin's egg-blue Olivetti, she re-read what she’d written so far. Unlike the phone call, she wasn’t sure this message was the right thing to do.  

Her source could remain forever confidential. That was how this worked. But she wanted her daughter to know the truth. Sally was only eight, but already she saw the world in black and white. It was up to Imogene to help her understand that, sometimes, the only way to fight a monster was to make a deal with the devil. Her reputation as a gung-ho reporter would, otherwise, give the girl the wrong ideas. She would lionize her mother. Until the real story came out. Secrets had a tendency to reveal themselves one way or another.

Besides, her story would change lives. 

From a certain angle, her reporting did include her original assignment. If it weren’t for the Black Dahlia case, she’d never have done this investigation. She looked down at the newspaper clippings on her desk, her work over the past five years. The ‘Beautiful Homes’ photo spread of the Juergen mansion was on top because chronological order made sense. Underscored what she was trying to show her daughter. That “story” was essentially a collection of captions. That was all Briggs had ever expected of her. At the start, it was all she’d ever expected of herself, and this was why—she reminded herself—she had to tell Sally the truth. 

Shuffling the pile, she found her first big piece. The exposé she had given the Press—‘Bookie Joint, Crap Game, Houses of Ill-Repute — Tampa’s Biggest Crackdown.’ Her first investigative report. All because Briggs had sent her out on a puff piece—the Florida Girls beauty contest. That was a puff piece. Especially after Briggs got his fingers all over it. Thank heavens for Agnes Underwood.

Aggie had shown her how different work could be. She was her mentor, the first woman Imogene had ever worked for and the only woman she’d ever met who took less care in her appearance. Frazzled hairdos and wrinkled suits aside, Aggie never treated Imogene as anything less than a fully capable reporter. Then again, neither had Sal Giancarlo.

Shame bloomed in Imogene’s chest. She’d known all along that while he was feeding her stories to take down gangland’s most wanted criminals, he was moving in on their territory. But once he’d told her about the nefarious network that gathered vulnerable young women off the streets for the pleasure of men, his motives ceased to be a concern.

The clock struck the quarter hour. Beads of perspiration formed on Imogene’s forehead. She fanned herself with her shirt. She could delay no longer. 

Lifting the heavy black receiver off its switch hook, Imogene dialed the operator. She’d just come on the line when a scraping noise sounded at her door. 

Who on earth—?

The door knob rattled as she half-rose from her seat. A sudden sharp thud slammed the door on its hinges. Startled, Imogene dropped the phone and turned to face the window, cursing the view. This was no mere interruption and there was no escape down that steep hillside. But she couldn’t leave her confession lying about. 

Ripping the sheet from her typewriter cartridge as she gathered her clips, Imogene thrust the lot into the Manilla folder she’d prepared. Where to hide it? Had she written enough? 

She made a mad dash for the bathroom and stuffed the envelope into the one place no man would look, her sanitary napkin box. Her piece was at the Times, safe in her desk. After having her story about corruption in Las Vegas killed, she’d taken steps to ensure that wouldn’t happen again. No matter what happened, her exposé was safe. 

The door burst open.