Gin Mills and the Goods

Tedros Meredith

Sophie is, as usual, lording it over everyone else from her booth.

She sits, swathed in her silks and furs and pearls, and drinks the sometimes shit liquor, and ignores or indulges the boys as she fancies. Today, she's not interested; the only people permitted to sit with her are Nicola and Chaddick. Chaddick to make sure no one tries to kidnap her, and Nicola because the girl has just had a, frankly, dreadful breakup and Sophie enjoys feeling nice, even if she isn't, necessarily. She feels especially like being nice, today, partially because the drink is decent, but also because of everything else that's going to happen tonight, which is all due to her.

"He really just broke it off with your right there?" demands Chaddick to Nicola. Nicola nods glumly, staring at the melting ice in her drink.

"In front'a the whole bar."

Chaddick whistles, looking sympathetic. Sophie carefully schools her features into a neutral expression, even though she hasn't heard such good gossip since Millicent slapped the governor's son, but looking gleeful probably doesn't fall under the category of being "nice". Nicola is still talking;

"He tried to leave, but Bogden grabbed him and got right up in his face, told him if he ever came back he'd plug him full of holes."

Chaddick gives a startled hoot.

"Really? He's, what, your saxophonist?"

"He's a decent fella, though." Nicola's mouth twitches a little at the memory, even though she's still clearly upset. She glances at Sophie to see if she's interested.

(She isn't.)

A nicer person would have made an effort to talk to her, offered advice or laughed along. Sophie doesn't. It's not that she doesn't like Nicola (well, she doesn't particularly, but only because Sophie rarely likes anyone with such dire fashion taste as Nicola has), but tonight, Sophie has other things on her mind, and finds she's not particularly interested in the other girl's heartbreak. So, instead, Sophie just turns to stare haughtily out over the bar.

Nicola sighs and turns back to Chaddick.

The club is rambunctious and stifling with smoke, too-strong perfume and the heavy stench of liquor. A glass breaks somewhere, and group of men cheer. Sophie's not sure what's louder, the crowd or the band. Either way, it's some small wonder they haven't been raided yet, with the collective roar of music and laughter and conversation that makes the hidden speakeasy almost deafening. Groups of patrons mingle and drink and chat, high off the smoke and the exhilaration of something illegal, something forbidden.

Club Avalon, Sophie's carefully curated masterpiece of drunken revelry and entertainment. Almost everything about it, from the stage curtains, to the lighting, is her choice. She spared no expense, knowing full well how to pull a crowd, and, more importantly, how to keep them. Good interior design, comfort, and, most importantly, the pretty singers and dancers, young men and women with bright eyes and good voices who could keep people coming back again and again... even without the steady flow of moonshine which really keeps them in business.

Everyone asks where Sophie gets it. She doesn't care to tell them, but if you know, you know, and if you work it out, you keep your mouth shut.

It's the one thing that she can't exactly claim credit for.

Sophie tunes back into the conversation, and catches Nicola's last few sentences;