Devil's Trap

VI

Jack offered his hand to her as they stepped out of the cab. Stella took it, but neither of them let go. It wasn't until Stella squeezed his hand that he realized how tight he had been holding hers. The street was very dark, as the sun had just set over the city and the street lamps were scarce.

"You should probably get rid of your gun," she said. Jack nodded, tucking the pistol into the back of his pants, throwing his dampened lapels over it. Stella furrowed her brow.

"Do I get a gun?" She asked, her eyelashes batting pleadingly. Her eyes portrayed utter horror underneath a visage of calmness. He knew is was against protocol, but something about her stare was oddly convincing, tantalizing even. Her fingers were crossed behind her back, but he could see them trembling from his position adjacent to her.

Reluctance in his jaw, he took a pistol from under his pant leg. "I'm not supposed to do this, so please be extremely careful."

Her fingers uncrossed and she took the gun, brushing his fingers with hers. It was then that she realized that the cold was making her quake along with the lingering apprehension. She quickly put the gun in her purse. They began to walk a little faster.

The speakeasy was surprisingly quiet for the time of night. There were the subtleties of a solo saxophone and piano cascading along a tired jazz tune, as well as they soft light emerging from each window.

As they passed underneath the relatively low doorway, they realized it was pretty much emptied out. A few young men sat at the bar, glasses of whiskey twirling in their hands. A woman sat on her beau's lap in the corner, breaking a kiss to shoot Stella and Jack a hateful stare.

"We're closed, pal." A bartender wiped off the counter, swiftly grabbing some money from a man on the verge of passing out from intoxication.

Stella smiled. "We're looking for a friend of a friend. Some bell bottom named Grey."

The bartender grinned. "What for, baby?"

"None of your beeswax, baby," she retorted, her smile remaining convincingly genuine.

He turned to Jack. "She's a real bearcat, ain't she?" he said. Jack rolled on the balls of his feet, averting his glance. The bartender turned back to Stella. "He's in the back room, but he isn't exactly a billboard. Why are you important enough for a visit to Mr. Grey?"

Jack looked up, his hand drumming against his thigh. "Why don't you let Grey decide if we're important enough for a visit?"

The bartender raised his eyebrows. "You too, huh? How many bimbos we got in this joint?" He wandered a few inches closer to Jack, an attempt at a menacing glare cast upon his face. Stella rolled her eyes. Meeting the bartender's gaze, she stepped between him and Jack.

"I didn't get all dudded up for this, mister," she said, not yet breaking her gaze. "C'mon Max. We're going to the back room."

Stella grabbed Jack's hand, strutting past the bartender. She laced her arm into the crook of his elbow.

"Thank you for that," he said. She nodded. Jack tilted his head to a door by the restrooms, and the two walked over, feeling the scrape of hateful eyes on their skin. Jack knocked a few times, not bothering to wait for an answer before entering.

Harold Grey sat at a small coffee table, a cigarette lilting with his gesticulations as he spoke with a man across from him. The two stopped conversing as the newly donned spies crept into the dim room.

There was a feeble, grim eeriness to the room. Jack assumed it was just the irregularity of his heart racing against his veins, but the room seemed genuinely colder. He crossed his arms, trying to sustain a brave visage, yet still needing to stifle a shiver here or there.