Prohibition is the law of the land, but Nellie needs cash - after socking a gangster in the face, she's got ten days to make it right. Frightened and caught empty-handed, Nellie turns bootlegger.
She accepts a job from her sly friend Lola to pick up...
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CHICAGO
FRIDAY, MAY 8th 1925
• • ten o'clock pm ••
The flask's ice-cold on my thigh. Condensation's caught in my stockings so I cross my legs. Nobody will notice. Another twenty minutes and I'm outta here. The band's playing it cozy and warm. A fella with slick-backed hair hands his ticket to the blonde on my right. She giggles. They hurry off to dance, while I just think, tapping my heel along the floor. Ten dollars a week for dancing, nine for working the diner tables. A little extra for the booze, here and there. Still not enough.
"Hey, doll."
Joey Collins waves a ticket in front of me like a little pennant. My mood sours. Collins is a pain in the ass. But saying no to the son of Michael Collins is a sure way to ask for something unfortunate.
"Hi Joey," I say, hoping the poison will make him scram. But I know better. That's the whole point of this dance hall—fella forks over a dime for a ticket, and taxi dance gals like me make a commission for accepting.
I take his hand. Thank God I'm wearing gloves.
"Why the long face, sister?" He pulls me up and I smooth out my dress.
"None of your beeswax."
Joey twirls me around. He's a slick dancer, I'll give him that.
"You still hanging around my sister?"
"Lola? Once in a while." I don't need to tell him that seeing Lola is my next stop.
"That's swell I guess," Joey says, taking me through some fancy footwork, "Must be some reason she's keeping a gal like you around."
There is. And it's strapped to my leg. First-rate booze from a one-hundred percent authentic bottle. Sold to me hours past by Roy Thompson straight from his own father's cellars. Lola trusts me to get her the good stuff and with the rich fellas I meet in the dance hall, I have a steady stream of premiere inventory.
So I'm not offended when Joey says a thing like that. I'm just resourceful.
Just when I get my hands unclasped from Joey's he pulls another ticket and leers at me. I wish I could sock him right in the kisser, but that's not how you treat paying guests.
"I need a rest, Joey," I say, "It's been a long day." I'm grateful the band hasn't played one of those new tunes snaking their way through the dance halls. If I were to kick my feet up too high everybody in this joint would get a load of the illicit substance strapped to my leg. And this place like everywhere else in the country is supposed to be "dry."
"Come on, sweetheart," he says, "You're almost as good as me. And I'm going places, you know I am." Joey is rakishly handsome. He's no Valentino, but the fine lines are there. Even movie star good looks can't make me excited about dancing with him again.
