Secret Light

SECRET LIGHT

Z. A. Maxfield

www.loose-id.com

Secret Light

Copyright © December 2011 by Z. A. Maxfield

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book

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eISBN 978-1-61118-688-8

Editor: Judith David

Cover Artist: April Martinez

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

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www.loose-id.com

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical

events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely

coincidental.

Warning

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered

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* * * *

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Dedication

For Julia, who helped me put Rafe’s thoughts into German words, and to her band of Merry

German speakers, who gave me a magnificent list of love words when I asked for help. Thank you

so much! All mistakes are mine alone.

Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light

2

Chapter One

November 25, 1955

When Rafe entered Cinnabar on the day after Thanksgiving, Christmas was already

in evidence everywhere. He took in the scene, from the live Christmas tree in the corner

to the strands of tinsel shimmering over the mirror behind the bar. The place was rich

with the scent of pine and tobacco and hot from strings of multicolored lights. Cocktail

waitresses sported Santa hats, and Kelly the bartender worked around a miniature

village display—stores, houses, and a tiny quaint church arranged on tufts of cotton

batting that resembled snow.

Rafe made his way through revelers, blinking against the ubiquitous fog of smoke.

The smell was sure to seep into his clothes and hair by the end of the evening, and just

the thought made him feel inside his coat pocket for a Pep-O-Mint Life Saver—a kind of

trademark with him. He used his thumbnail to separate one, foil and all, from its

fellows and rubbed it between his fingers until it was devoid of its wrapper. Discreetly

he slipped it into his mouth, between his molars, and crunched down to let the almost

too powerful mint flavor overwhelm his senses.

He was often accused of being fastidious, but if he was going to smell like anything

in public, it would be something people found soothing—something they liked. He did

plan to smoke tonight, though he normally saved his cigarette use and his love of a

good pipe for quiet times at home, when he was alone. To do any less with the men

from work would be to invite comparison, and his coworkers were brutal to the

nonsmokers and teetotalers among their growing office staff. More than one had begun

to indulge out of some kind of social self-defense.

Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light

3

Elliot Spencer—who currently had his arm slung around Jack Gold and was

holding forth in such a forceful way that the smaller, slighter Gold pulled back subtly—

saw Rafe and waved him over.

Rafe removed his hat and found an unoccupied chair.

“Rafe, how did the call go? Any bites on those leads?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug as he arranged himself with one casual arm over the

back of the chair and crossed his legs. “What do you think?”

“You bastard!” Spencer let a relieved Gold go. “I bet Keller a buck you couldn’t

crack that nut with a hammer this time of year.”

“Nobody says no to Rafe.”

“What can I get you?” A pretty cocktail waitress had approached their table

wearing a leotard top and a skin-tight skirt—slit nearly to her thigh—under a

minuscule apron. Her hair had been cut à la Leslie Caron and looked fantastic with her

patrician nose and classically sculpted face. Dark eyes, red lips, and hoop earrings gave

her a gypsy air. Everything about her said foreign and delicious, except her accent,

which said…Milwaukee, maybe. Another would-be starlet—that heady mix of daring

and self-possession and naïveté. You couldn’t turn around in Los Angeles without

knocking them down like bowling pins.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Spence gave her the once-over. “Bring my friend Rafe here

something to loosen him up. Success has gone to his head.”

Rafe pulled a pack of Dunhill cigarettes from his pocket and removed one, lipping

it and glancing around for a light.

He dug into his pocket for his lighter, but
Gorgeous
beat him to it. She pulled a gold

lighter from her apron and lit it for him. While she did this, she conveyed an

unmistakable invitation with her eyes.

Rafe took a puff and waved the smoke away. “Johnnie Walker Black Label. Neat.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light

4

The salesmen of Paradise Realty watched her go. Wolf whistles followed. “You dog,

Rafe. We’ve been here for an hour, and she’s barely given us the time of day.”

“I keep telling you, it’s all in the presentation.” Rafe leaned over to pull an ashtray

his way. “Girls prefer a man with some class.”

“I gotta hand it to you, Rafe. You’ve got that in spades.” Spence turned to Gold.

“Gold, tell him what you were telling me at lunch.”

Gold flushed but forged ahead. “Weinberg says that the market is drying up for the

foreseeable future. People won’t be buying houses again until spring, and income

property is in the crapper right now, because the Russians—”

“I wrote up an offer for that retail property in Westchester just before I got here.”

Gold’s brows drew together. “You what?”

“It’s a lock.” Rafe felt for the ashtray and tapped his ashes without looking as he

leaned back to let Starlet Girl put his drink down. He held up a five-dollar bill. “What’s

your name, honey?”

“Benita.” Her eyes met his, daring him to contradict her.

“Sure it is.” He grinned at her. She shrugged, taking his cash. “Benita,
Schätzchen
,

whenever you see this glass nearly empty, will you be kind enough to bring me

another?”

“Certainly, and at the end of the evening, should I call you a cab?”

“I’d prefer it if you called me Rafe.” He lifted one corner of his lips in a practiced

smile. “But yes. A cab. Unless you can think of a better way for me to get to my bed

without harm.” Rafe issued that challenge with all the body English at his disposal.

From her widening eyes and the slight hitch in her breath, she was considering it.

She leaned a hip against the table, ignoring his friends. “You’re German?”

“I’m Austrian. From Vienna.”

“You came after the war?”

Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light

5

For some people, 1955 seemed barely a breath after 1945. America had put paid to

the German
Wehrmacht
, but few Americans heard his accent—saw his blond hair and

blue eyes—and let him forget about it entirely.

“Before your country became involved, actually—but barely.”

“Sure.” She nodded, holding her drink tray to her chest protectively. “I’ll keep your

drinks coming for you.”

“
Danke
, Fräulein.” Girls might hold grudges for fathers and brothers lost in the war,

but they all softened right up for a dick with an accent.
Who knew?

“So have you got your Christmas tree yet?” Spence interrupted. “Linda and I got

ours yesterday from a guy in Torrence. Douglas fir. I had to jew him down, but in the

end, it was the best tree in the lot, and I got it for a song.

Rafe didn’t let anyone see him flinch at Spencer’s blatant anti-Semitism, but Gold

couldn’t help himself. “
Spence
.”

“Well, it’s true.” He shrugged. “You ought to know. You gotta bargain with your

people, or they don’t respect you. I’m supposed to go home tonight and help decorate it

for the kids, but I told Linda I was working, and we’d do it first thing tomorrow.”