stopped in the doorway, his eyes roving over the gilded youth of Mayfair as it kicked up its heels in a wavering circle. Trumpets squealed and a redheaded girl fell into somebody’s lap.
His mother considered the big apple
vulgar
, probably because it looked like something cannibals danced before eating their supper. Kick was brilliant at it, drunk or sober; she could snap her fingers and shift her hips and smack her neighbor’s ass with the best of them, her mouth open wide in a shriek of laughter.
Convinced he’d find his sister out on the floor instead of tucked into a corner with Billy Hartington, Jack searched among the dancers—and there she was, crying “Bumpsa-daisy!” as the big apple gyrated to a close. She swung her tush into the backside of the guy next to her.
But the guy was neither Billy nor his brother Andrew nor his friend David Ormsby-Gore, all men Jack would trust with Kick’s life, but an iron-chested Aryan with massive shoulders and a suit that might have graced Al Capone. He was turning toward Kick, his arm coming up to steady her. He smiled at her glowing face and muttered something she seemed unable to hear. She was leaning toward him, attentive and earnest.
The White Spider. With his hand gripping Kick’s arm.
Jesus.
Jack shoved his way through the milling crowd, a tea-kettle whistle singing in his ears and the words
get away get away get away
pounding in his head, frantic and accelerating. Not a knife in an alley for the ambassador’s son but a sacrificial lamb, a girl diabolically chosen, a strike at the Kennedy heart.
This was true fear and he felt it, now: fear not for himself but for the only thing he really loved, Kick with her monkey’s smile. The Spider jerked her toward the door and she began to look uncertain, as though the script had changed. Then, as Jack watched, she raised her hand and slapped the man’s cheek.
The Spider reared back and Jack swore aloud but the music started again and his obscenities were drowned in a swirl of sax. He shoved a middle-aged man aside. The Spider wasn’t even aware of Jack; he was looking at Kick. Not with rage or violence, but overwhelming hunger. Because Kick had resisted? Because she’d slapped him?
The guy gets off on pain,
Jack thought
.
And drove his fist into the Spider’s gut.
The man’s breath left his body in a whoosh as Jack connected. But he barely registered the punch; he smashed a right like an anvil into Jack’s left cheekbone. Jack’s head snapped back and he reeled, off balance, then put his shoulder down and executed a perfect Harvard tackle, bowling the Spider back against the wall. It didn’t matter that he was a flyweight or that the man could snap his neck with his bare hands, because Jack was suddenly surrounded by Kick’s friends—Billy and Andrew and David and even Bert the Doorman, whose refrain of
Now then, Gents, now then,
rattled in Jack’s ears.
He righted himself, skull aching and wind tearing in his throat, his eyes fixed on the Spider. It was clear from the way the man stood that he could toss all of them in the air like cricket balls; but he was being careful now. He did not want more attention. What Jack knew and no one else could suspect was that the Spider was a German and a killer. He would not want to talk to the British police.
“Jack,”
Kick said worriedly. “Jack, you’re bleeding.”
He felt her butterfly fingers against his cheek.
“Somebody call the cops. Fast, you hear?”
“That’s a little close to the knuckle, isn’t it?” she murmured. “The guy didn’t hurt me. He’s just fresh, is all. And he could have you up for assault, kid.”
Bert and Billy and Andrew hustled the German across the tiny dance floor.
“Call the police!” Jack yelled furiously. He thrust himself in front of them, blocking the way. The Spider’s face was inches from his own. The scar bisecting his lip; the utter lack of expression in his flat blue eyes—
“Now, now, Mr. Kennedy,”
His mother considered the big apple
vulgar
, probably because it looked like something cannibals danced before eating their supper. Kick was brilliant at it, drunk or sober; she could snap her fingers and shift her hips and smack her neighbor’s ass with the best of them, her mouth open wide in a shriek of laughter.
Convinced he’d find his sister out on the floor instead of tucked into a corner with Billy Hartington, Jack searched among the dancers—and there she was, crying “Bumpsa-daisy!” as the big apple gyrated to a close. She swung her tush into the backside of the guy next to her.
But the guy was neither Billy nor his brother Andrew nor his friend David Ormsby-Gore, all men Jack would trust with Kick’s life, but an iron-chested Aryan with massive shoulders and a suit that might have graced Al Capone. He was turning toward Kick, his arm coming up to steady her. He smiled at her glowing face and muttered something she seemed unable to hear. She was leaning toward him, attentive and earnest.
The White Spider. With his hand gripping Kick’s arm.
Jesus.
Jack shoved his way through the milling crowd, a tea-kettle whistle singing in his ears and the words
get away get away get away
pounding in his head, frantic and accelerating. Not a knife in an alley for the ambassador’s son but a sacrificial lamb, a girl diabolically chosen, a strike at the Kennedy heart.
This was true fear and he felt it, now: fear not for himself but for the only thing he really loved, Kick with her monkey’s smile. The Spider jerked her toward the door and she began to look uncertain, as though the script had changed. Then, as Jack watched, she raised her hand and slapped the man’s cheek.
The Spider reared back and Jack swore aloud but the music started again and his obscenities were drowned in a swirl of sax. He shoved a middle-aged man aside. The Spider wasn’t even aware of Jack; he was looking at Kick. Not with rage or violence, but overwhelming hunger. Because Kick had resisted? Because she’d slapped him?
The guy gets off on pain,
Jack thought
.
And drove his fist into the Spider’s gut.
The man’s breath left his body in a whoosh as Jack connected. But he barely registered the punch; he smashed a right like an anvil into Jack’s left cheekbone. Jack’s head snapped back and he reeled, off balance, then put his shoulder down and executed a perfect Harvard tackle, bowling the Spider back against the wall. It didn’t matter that he was a flyweight or that the man could snap his neck with his bare hands, because Jack was suddenly surrounded by Kick’s friends—Billy and Andrew and David and even Bert the Doorman, whose refrain of
Now then, Gents, now then,
rattled in Jack’s ears.
He righted himself, skull aching and wind tearing in his throat, his eyes fixed on the Spider. It was clear from the way the man stood that he could toss all of them in the air like cricket balls; but he was being careful now. He did not want more attention. What Jack knew and no one else could suspect was that the Spider was a German and a killer. He would not want to talk to the British police.
“Jack,”
Kick said worriedly. “Jack, you’re bleeding.”
He felt her butterfly fingers against his cheek.
“Somebody call the cops. Fast, you hear?”
“That’s a little close to the knuckle, isn’t it?” she murmured. “The guy didn’t hurt me. He’s just fresh, is all. And he could have you up for assault, kid.”
Bert and Billy and Andrew hustled the German across the tiny dance floor.
“Call the police!” Jack yelled furiously. He thrust himself in front of them, blocking the way. The Spider’s face was inches from his own. The scar bisecting his lip; the utter lack of expression in his flat blue eyes—
“Now, now, Mr. Kennedy,”
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