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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I don't feel ready as I take a cab to the Midwest Perfume & Company building. The street's nearly deserted, and the sun's left just a bit of haze in the sky. But even that smudge of hope is close to disappearing. The cabbie's patient with me, though, as I fish a generous tip out of my wallet.
He drives away and I use a butcher's window to adjust my jacket in the dim light of the streetlamp. I rushed home to change and bailed on a dinner with my parents and our neighbors in the process. My mother had the look on her face that said forgiveness wouldn't come easy.
"My name is Henry Clark," I mutter, fixing my posture, "I'm studying Political Theory. Two years out from graduation."
I don't feel like a Henry Clark.
The warehouse takes up an entire block. It's immense. Commanding. I pull a reluctant batch of fresh air into my lungs, reciting the rest of my story with every four steps.
I'm Henry Clark. I'm going into politics once I'm out of school, but I need some cash for my campaign. I heard business was hopping, I'm going to open a 'pharmacy' but I need to make sure I've got product.
The door looks ordinary enough. It's well-kept on the building's side. I rap on it, then shove my hands in my pockets.
What if these men know who I am?
I might be missing Lola's party.
I'm ready to rap again on the door when a slim man with greasy blonde hair pulls it aside just far enough to get a good look at me. I force out a lazy smile.
"Henry Clark, pleased to meet you," I say, offering my hand.
The fellow lets my hand hang in the air, then nods, and moves aside for me to enter. The hall's well-lit, and the door easing back into its frame echoes with a little more finality than I'd like.
"I apologize if I'm early," I say, but my greeter hasn't said a word. He just walks ahead, motioning for me to follow. There's a dark stripe of a holster against the cream of his shirt. But I force my eyes to the sweat stains on his jacket. It isuncommonly warm inside. I should keep talking, I think, Henry Clark's meant to be clueless.
"Quite an operation you've got here," I say.
There's a door straight down the end of the hall. But I'm steered towards another.
"In there."
"Of course," I say, and that's how I find myself in Tim Wells' office.
It's utilitarian more than anything. Wooden chairs, a single window with a filing cabinet pushed in front of it—maybe an escape route—and beat-up desk. I suppose the thin man sitting behind it to be the one I'm looking for.
"Hullo, Mr. Wells," I say.
"Hello, Mr. Clark." His voice is deeper, richer than I figured, considering he isn't the burly monster I expected. But whereas I'm just skinny, Wells looks wiry, tough. "Please, take a seat."
It's just like I'm back in Travers' office. But instead of hurrying to obey I grin at Wells like a fool and take my time.
"I hope you've thought about my proposal," I say, "I'm eager to get started."
"I'm sure you are," Wells says. He lights a cigarette. I check the watch on my wrist. When I glance back up at Wells I find him studying me. It makes my insides squirm.
"So, how about it? It'll be just bi-weekly deliveries to start, until business picks up."
"Oh," Wells says, waving the hand with the cigarette in it, "We both know that's a load of horse shit, don't we?"
"You don't think I have the money?" I say, but my instincts tell me that little window is very, very important. Sweat's beading along the inside of my collar.
"I don't care about money," Wells says, "I know you're Travers' boy."
I hesitate. And it's too long. I should deny it. But I can't bring myself to. Wells smiles at me, crookedly. "Don't be too hard on yourself, kid. I've been spotting agents for years. And Travers and I have unfinished business."
Unfinished business. No wonder Travers has got such a hoard of files on this man. I'm going to be the finished business pretty soon.
"What gave it away?" I manage. Wells takes a drag on his cigarette.
"Call it an instinct. You know what I did for a living, after the war?"
I shake my head, because that seems like a good idea.
"I was a bellhop," he says, "At a nice old hotel. Carried little old ladies' suitcases, worked the elevator at one point. You know what I learned? How to watch people. How to get to know them. Learning to spot where the tips were. I made my first fortune gambling, and here I am."
I don't really know what to say. Wells snubs out his cigarette. "If John Travers doesn't think I've got my own set of eyes on him, he's got another thing coming. You can tell him that I've got a few other things to sort out first, but I'll be after him when I'm good and ready. Tell him I'm a patient man."
Tell him. I was getting out of here alive. I exhale a stale breath. Wells grins at me like he's read my mind.
"I'm not going to harm a hair on your head," he says, "No point in that. You're just the errand boy." Wells gets to his feet and I scramble up, too, clenching my hat so hard I'm probably denting the brim.
"Besides," he adds, "I can get to you whenever I like."
All the blood leaves my face at once. Wells gets up from behind his desk and opens the door for me.
"Nice meeting you, Mr. Clark," he says, "Be sure to give my regards to our mutual friend."
I don't have to be told twice. My heart doesn't stop pounding until I'm three blocks away.
