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'm up at once. Everybody else takes an extra moment or two to get their bearings. The door comes down and I dive beneath a table. Federal agents don't mess around, but this place is small—the fed has only brought two local cops with him.
They shout for everybody to be quiet and one of the surlier guests throws a glass at the Fed and then he's down at the ground. The barkeep tries to make a run for the steps but he's tackled by a younger fella. I back up into the shadows. I mean to grab Lola on the way and tell her to stay down but she's done the opposite. She's stayed right where she is; I suspect she'll read them the riot act about coming down hard on her father's place.
The poor saps who didn't manage to hide like me will be dragged up and out into the street and that will be that. I stay down, still in the shadows. Behind me there's an old dusty curtain meant to hide something and I lift it, carefully, then slip beneath.
If I get caught if I get booked—it'll be so long to the diner. If Mr. Oliver drops me like a hot potato then I certainly won't have enough cash to stay in my flat.
I've been through raids before. Once I was yanked onto the street and managed to run away down an alley after I bit the copper on the hand. Another time I hid in a cupboard behind the bar. And this time I thanked the Lord above for this musty excuse of a curtain.
The bulls upend a few tables and chairs. Glassware crashes along with it. Then comes the counting, out loud. They'll pull the entire store out and take inventory before writing it all up. All that lovely booze—all those potential dollars would wind up swirling with the grit in the streets down the storm sewer.
A crying shame, that's what this was.
I calm my breathing and make it as gentle as possible, so as not to disturb the curtain. I have my legs pulled up all the way under me, and slowly I undo the buckles on my shoes. I may have to run, and running in brand new heels is well nigh impossible. Those damned rickety stairs would have me flat on my face in no time.
I push the shoes aside. The cold tugs at my feet already and I shut my eyes, listening.
"Decent enough," somebody says. I wonder if they have a wagon upstairs to cart everybody away to get booked. Poor Rudy! I can't fathom what a night in the lockup will do for his delicate constitution.
I wish they'd just leave already. They should take one of the bottles for themselves and scram.
The older fella reports the laundry list and bottles clank against one another in their crates. In another hour, I'll be undressing for bed. Home safe and sound. I can get some sleep and come up with a plan. I'll find Lola when it's all safe.
"This was dangerous," somebody says, "Isn't this Collins' joint?"
