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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MONDAY, MAY 11 1925
In the morning there's an envelope waiting for me under my door. Lola's sent me an invite to a party in the fashionable district. I figure this must be when she means to talk to me about the job. I touch the delicate stamping and sit heavily on my bed. I hadn't considered Lola's side of things very much. Getting hitched in a month. To whom? Sure, Lola has her fair share of admirers. Lola's fun to be around. It comes as easy to her as breathing. Plenty of fellas would give their right hand to marry her.
I flip the card over and lay on my back. There's laundry to do, cleaning, too. But Lola's loopy handwriting snags my attention first.
Bring someone.
I groan because I know better than to antagonize Lola Collins. I want to get my business over and done with, but Lola needs to know she can count on me.
Slowly I head over to the sink to fill the basin with cold water. I dump some soap in alongside my cotton shifts and get to scrubbing on the washboard, thinking it over. I could write her back, and ask her to secure a date for me.
Or I could ask Felix.
He won't set foot inside a speakeasy, but a party? If he wants to be a stick in the mud and refuse the hospitality then that's his business.
Yes, I reason, Lola probably wants me to bring him.
I hang up two of my shifts after wringing them out. They make the line sag terribly but I don't care. As they bob up and down I'm weighing my options. I can't afford a new dress, so my sea-foam outfit will have to do. Maybe I'll pick up a phony ring for some added interest.
I wait to get back inside until the front door squeals terribly and the street sounds drift up the stairs. I empty the cloth bag and find nothing but what he said—my handbag, my shawl, and my pair of shoes. Even the cash is there, snug as a bug in a rug.
It's a kind gesture but it leaves me uneasy. Kind gestures can be hard to come by in a place like this. And if some copper isn't going to arrest me for bowling him over, what is he after?
I hang up my shawl to get the wrinkles out. I'm not showing up to some high society party in wrinkled get-up.
* * *
Selling Felix on the idea is easier than I think. I corner him back at the garage after my shift at the diner. I lean against the wall next to the delivery truck he's working on. He's busy below it, already filthy.
"It's a real party," I say, "Cocktails, music, and everything. But our new employer will be there."
Felix grunts. He sets a tool down and it rings, loudly on the concrete. I bite my lip, considering. The episode from the other day was a rattling one. How did that cop know my name? He couldn't have talked to Felix—not unless it was before he saw me on Sunday.
There's another clatter and a curse and I'm thrown from my thoughts rather violently.
"Do I need to fetch the iodine?"
"Yes," Felix says, and just as he starts to crawl out from underneath the trunk I sail away to the office. The iodine and some gauze is always within easy reach. I snatch both and a clean rag.
Felix stands next to his work bench, covered in grime. He's gripping what I assume is the hurt hand.
"You'd better wash it first," I say. It's a tapered cut across the inside of his thumb. Not terribly nasty, but certainly painful-looking. Once he's washed it I press iodine to the wound and he hisses.
"If you were more careful it wouldn't sting," I say.
He scoffs and I wrap his thumb up tight.
"Do you need me to help you find something to wear?"
Felix looks at me like I'm lost my marbles.
"I can dress myself."
"Good," I say, "Meet me at my place tomorrow at eight?"
