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“And winked at, let’s not leave that out of the story.”

“Wait until you hear the band. You won’t see them very well unless we go up to dance, but that’s Benny Goodman’s band.”

Rainy frowns. “This is mad! I shouldn’t be in a place with these people! And . . . I don’t think I dance.”

“You don’t think you do?”

“Well, I am certainly not dancing at the Stork Club in front of Frank Sinatra.”

But she does dance after a few more cocktails and fortified by a massive steak of the sort regular folks aren’t supposed to be getting, what with there being a war on.

It is a glittering, wonderful evening, but Rainy has to work at enjoying it. This is not her place, not her people. Her people wear green uniforms, curse frequently, smell usually, and complain constantly. But within Rainy’s limited ability to relax and enjoy life, it is an enjoyable, even somewhat enchanting, evening.

Be honest, she scolds herself, it’s better than somewhat enchanting.

Emerging into the fresh air afterward they find the rain has stopped, leaving the streets wet and shining. The washing that often hangs from balconies and fire escapes is gone, the sidewalk vendors have all fled, and the streets feel empty and clean. There’s a metallic smell that is at once chemical and sanitary, as if the city has just been mopped with ammonia.

An aging Hasid, his beaver hat sparkling with raindrops, casts a disapproving look at them, and only then does Rainy realize that Halev has taken her hand. Ultra-Orthodox Jews do not like men and women walking together, let alone holding hands, let alone a man holding hands with a woman wearing a uniform.

Rainy feels Halev’s hand shrinking in hers, and she tightens her grip in defiance. Let the alter cocker sneer, she will not be shamed by those people. She will not be shamed by anyone.

And if he wants to kiss me?

Halev insists on walking her home, despite acknowledging that she was the one who at their first meeting rescued him from a street fight and not the other way around. Still, a gentleman does not let his date roam the streets of the city alone at night.

They are a block from Rainy’s home when she notices that a long, black Plymouth sedan is creeping along the wet street behind them. Halev notices it too. “Let’s walk a little faster, shall we?”

“Actually, Halev, I have a feeling that may be my ride.”

“What?”

She stops and turns back to face the car, which now accelerates gently to come even with her. A burly man in a heavy overcoat and wearing a homburg hat rolls down the window and says, “You the Jew’s girl . . . uh, what’s her name?”

A second man, smaller but with the dead eyes of a porcelain doll, says, “Schulterman.”

“That’s me,” Rainy says.

The car brakes and both men get out. Both wear loose-fitting overcoats to conceal the bulge of shoulder holsters. That they are gangsters is not in question, they practically have the word gangster hung on a sandwich board around their necks.

“Come on, Rainy,” Halev says nervously.

“I’m so sorry, Halev, but I have to say good night.”

“But—”

“It’s some

thing . . .” She searches for the word and only comes up with, “Official.”

“I see.”

“I had a great time.”

“So did I. But these gentlemen are definitely putting an end to my schemes for a good night kiss.”

Rainy smiles. “Next time?”

“Promise?” he asks with a crooked smile that reveals a sweet mix of desire and bashfulness.