The night that 1930 fizzled out and 1931 roared in, Rosé Park stood singing in a chintzy speakeasy in Fayetteville, Nebraska, with a faraway look in her eyes that made her appear as if she was dreaming of something more. The room was thick with the haze of stale cigarette smoke as she sang "Bootlegger's Rag" with more vim than most of the drunken spectators would have anticipated.
A glass of ice and jorum of skee,
Drag your heeler to the speakeasy!
Bring your scratch, shake a leg.
Gold digger, sugar daddy, vamp, and yegg.
There's no time to lollygag.
Everybody wants to do the bootlegger's rag!
Sitting in the back of this somewhat dilapidated, unmarked establishment known to locals as Fat Philly Red's, Cotton McCann watched the performer with considerable interest. He rested his chin in the palm of his left hand while he chewed on his cigar and contemplated her level of talent.
She was blond, and although in an artificial way, this one had a more natural look. Like Garbo, but with slanting eyes that granted her an exotic quality. This girl was attractive, but somehow unusual. Sexy, yet wholesome and approachable. He inhaled deeply from his cigar and motioned to the waitress with his other hand.
"You need a refill, mister?" the curvy matron called to him over the music and the din of the crowd.
"I'd rather talk to that singer," he answered, straining to be heard. "What's her name again?"
"Rosé. But she doesn't usually spend her time bumpin' gums with the customers."
"And would a little jack maybe get me an introduction?" He held up two folded dollar bills between his index and middle fingers.
The waitress's eyes flashed, and she quickly snatched the money and slipped it into her ample cleavage. "I'll see what I can do. I can't guarantee you too much more than that. That kid's a straight arrow. But I'll make sure she stops by after her last number." She winked and disappeared back into the crowd.
Luckily for Cotton, very little about Fat Philly Red's homemade gin compelled him to actually finish the one he had ordered nearly an hour earlier. He had patronized more than his share of these clip joints in the last eight months, and in that time he had never tasted liquor quite this lousy. He held the glass to his nose and sniffed it again, to remind himself exactly how noxious it was. The smell suggested that its distillers had somehow managed to blend sulphur, animal feces, and kerosene. "Holy cats," he muttered, setting it back down on the table and pushing the glass away. He made a mental note to neither smell nor swallow the foul venom again, no matter how thirsty he became.
"Leave it if you're fond of your liver." The singer stood by his table, her left hand propped defiantly on her hip. She looked amused. "I hear that you got something to say." The timbre of her voice was melodic, but the tone was feisty. This girl obviously was no shrinking violet.
"You must be Rosé," he said, her name now an epiphany to him. He politely stood and gestured for her to sit, scrutinizing her again, this time from much closer. She was a striking combination of light hair and dark, smoky eyes. Her lips were full, what the flappers would call bee-stung, and her cheeks were round and pink. He reevaluated his earlier assessment. This girl didn't look like anyone he could think of, and she was mesmeric.
She eyed him appraisingly. He was clearly an out-of-towner. He absolutely radiated the city with his fancy brown suit and dark mustache. She guessed him to be around forty, and he carried the paunch that only a life of leisure could afford. Curious, she decided to see what he had to say and pulled up a chair. "But I don't know your name."
