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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This speak's hidden good. Its delivery door looks all boarded up and there's just a tiny little hole with a rusty nail poking out. I glance both ways down the street. The lamps show nothing but the far-off shadows of the happy couple. I knock four times with a pause between knocks one and two and stamp my feet to get some feeling back into them.
Whites of an eye appear in the tiny slit.
"Queen Elizabeth," I say, and slip through the open door.
There's another set of stairs. They're narrow, possibly even rotten. I take them slow. A good spill would ruin my dress for sure, and at fifteen dollars it was anything but cheap.
The music is cheerful and upbeat. It's a record, I know it is—this speak's too small to have an act—but it sets the mood. It's dim but cozy down below, all lit by strung-up lights. I slip between the tables. There's only about ten in this place but it's good enough. Business is hopping.
It's easy to pick Lola out of a crowd. Her inky hair shines beneath a lamp and her headband glistens. She's laughing. Lola's always laughing. She's got a particular sense of humor and a particular taste for particular gin.
There's an open chair for me and I slide into it, setting my handbag on the table. Lola grins at me, all electric charm.
"Nellie dear," she says. "You're early!"
I shrug and hand her the flask under the table. The daughter of Michael Collins can do what she wants but I don't want the bartender to know I'm the one who brought my own booze into this joint.
"You're a lifesaver!"
I introduce myself to her tablemate. He's already got an edge; his eyes are bright and mesmerized by the lights. Cute and disposable, like a cheap dress.
"Get yourself a Rickey, Nellie," Lola says. She's balanced her chin in her hand and gives me a once-over. "Better yet, Rudy—go get Nellie a Rickey."
Rudy stumbles off, nearly catching his smart jacket on a chair.
"He's about as interesting as a dishrag," Lola says, "But his father's in newspapers." She pulls out a cigarette.
"I could have gotten my own drink."
She winks at me and settles back into her seat. Her dress is a beautiful lilac color with silvery beading that catches the light just so. Lola's eyes take in the room. She's got her papa's eyes—sharp eyes.
"I saw your brother," I say.
"At the dance hall?"
"That's right."
"He give you any trouble?"
"No," I say.
"I don't know how you can stand working in a place like that," Lola says, "I've heard stories. Of fellas getting obsessed."
"I don't accept gifts," I say, "And the manager takes care of trouble."
Lola eyes me. "Is that place where you live really so expensive?"
"No," I say. I play with my pearls. "I just need the money." I need to ask her. "Lola," I say, "If there's something I could do—for you—I'd really owe you one."
She lights her cigarette and slips into a million-dollar smile. "I'll keep my ears and eyes open. You never let me down. You still paling around with that tough guy?"
I roll my eyes and she blows some smoke in my face. "Felix," I say.
"Sure, Felix. Tell him hi from me, won't you?"
Lola's only seen Felix once but that doesn't stop her from asking about him. She's just pushing my buttons and letting me know she keeps track.
And that she remembers.
Lola waggles her eyebrows at me and then fixes her eyes on the bar. She doesn't understand the way things are between me and Felix and I don't really care. I'm not friends with Lola to learn a thing or two about men. I'm friends with Lola because of business.
"'Atta boy, Rudy!" she calls, as Rudy struggles to lift two cocktails. Another fella in tails pulls him over for a conversation and Lola beckons with a finger for me to lean over the table.
"Keep this between us," she whispers, "I'm gonna tie the knot."
I blink, shocked. Lola Collins? Getting serious?
"Congratulations," I say, and I'm about to ask who the lucky son of a gun is but she beats me to the punchline and says that's a real secret.
I stare at her, gaping a little. But she's delighted and in a good mood. Rudy finally sets my drink on the table and I sip at it. Lola looks like a cat that's swallowed the canary and I'm left treading water. Who the hell would Lola marry without telling her father?
She scolds Rudy for making me wait. Rudy's cheeks are red and a clump of his hair has fallen across his forehead but he gets even redder and mumbles out an apology. I wonder if he knows who he's talking to.
I sip my Gin Rickey again. Not enough lime to smother the razor edge of the gin. I set it aside; Lola smiles. She understands. She's bought me drinks before but never pushed me to actually drink them if I refused—I think she feels it's her duty, somehow, like a hostess.
Now she brandishes the flask at the ceiling and proposes a toast to the good old mayor. I join and Rudy does, too, adding a slurred, "And how!"
Lola drags him up to dance and I beg off the fun for now. The dance floor's small—about twelve by twelve—and it's a bit cramped.
Lola laughs, loudly. Rudy can't dance for the life of him and I'm wondering where she picked him up. She dances with the flask in hand and her dress resembles a chandelier; it reminds me of the dance hall where we met.
I wipe my hands free of condensation on the tablecloth. I don't get plastered. It's just a bad idea all around—being a taxi dancer is a wild enough thing in my building. In the morning I have to be fresh and ready for the diner. Bad gin is sure to make a mess of that. I get up to tell Lola I'll see her later, and that's when I hear it. The record scratches out. There's a scuffling at the door and a whistle, loud, bright, clear.
