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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
SATURDAY, MAY 9th 1925
• • ten o'clock am • •
I make it to the diner with ten minutes to spare. Mr. Oliver looks up from the kitchen as I tie on my apron. I wave him a quick hello and he goes back to the stove. Sure, working at this diner isn't exactly the stuff of my dreams, but Mr. Oliver gives me plenty of shifts and it's enough for my rent.
Or it used to be.
I wipe at several surprisingly sticky coffee stains—customers must have used an awful lot of sugar. I wish they understood that it belonged inside a cup, and not just around it. I keep coming back to the sticky spot between customers. There are two gentleman seated at a booth in the back, but they're easy to look after. All they want is some lunch. I make sure to be attentive all the way through and sure enough, they want some dessert.
"We've got some crumb cake," I say. I tuck my rag into the drawstring of my apron, surveying the two men. One of them resembles my father, in a way. Must be the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
"What's crumb cake?"
I'm about to launch into an explanation, and it's going to be a good one because I'm an awful good salesgirl, but the door opens before I get the chance.
It's a reflex, to look at the door when it opens. I can't help it. I catch a glimpse of a lean body in an olive-colored suit, and I hurriedly turn back to my customers.
"It's like coffee cake," I say. The newcomer's shoes are a little wet. They creak along the floor. Both my customers won't meet my eyes all of a sudden. The squeaky shoes have appeared in my line of sight, just to my right.
"Are you Nellie Sypek?"
I force my neck to turn, to get a good look at this fella with a baritone so rich he could probably make a few records. Lean, mid-thirties, clean-shaven. Ale-colored eyes. I definitely don't know him.
"Who's asking?" I fight to keep my tone friendly. But my voice got all jittery.
"Tim Wells."
I tremble. I hurriedly break eye contact. The two men at the table throw down some money and take their leave. One brushes past me, hasty. Then I'm alone. Mr. Oliver sings to himself at the stove in back.
"Have a seat, Miss Nellie."
I fold into the booth and clasp my hands together on top of the table. He sits across from me, pulls his hat from his head.
"You had a little conversation the other night with Mr. Caulfield, didn't you?"
My worst fears are true. There's no use denying it. I nod.
"He doesn't have very good manners." Wells shoves aside a coffee cup left by the other patrons. "But it doesn't seem like you do, either."
"You've got to understand, sir," I say, "As a young woman living alone, when some strange man has broken into your apartment, sometimes she isn't likely to do the most quiet and sensible thing."
Wells folds his arms across his chest. I feel tiny. Shabby, in my dingy apron. I wish anybody else would walk through that door.
"Now it seems to me if you're that hotheaded, you might be a little trouble as a tenant."
"I can move somewhere else sir." His eyes are boring piping hot holes in my forehead. He's looking through me, at the uneven boards covered in cheap upholstery.
"There's no need for that," Wells replies, "But there's a little problem. People start hearing that I'm treating you with kid gloves and they'll start seeing things the wrong way."
My eyes are growing hot behind my lashes. If even half the things they've said about Wells are true, I don't know what he could do to me. I wait for him to fill the silence, considering how cold the lake is this time of year still.
"So we'll make a little deal," he says, "You keep your mouth shut about your disagreement with Richie, and you reimburse me for the trouble."
I blink, quickly. I haven't got anything to my name now, and Lola's job was only going to give me a small step up.
"A reputation is easily destroyed. You understand that as a young lady, don't you?"
I nod. I've clasped my finger so hard together on top of the table they look like little spiders. He takes his time then, fixing the way his hat sits across the surface of the table and the saucer. Mr. Oliver's stopped singing in the back. Is he listening?
"Five hundred dollars," Wells says.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. Five hundred dollars. That's a year's worth of rent.
"Sir--," I start, "I don't have—"
"I'm a generous man," Wells says, "You've got ten days to come up with the money." He swipes his hat from the table. "I'll be back. On the nineteenth."
No, I want to say, I don't, please reconsider. But I don't want to push my luck any further than I've pushed it already.
"Yes sir," I say. Wells walks right back out into the sunlight. Mr. Oliver doesn't say anything about me just sitting in the booth in front of the dirty dishes and cold coffee.
And I'm suddenly aware of every extra minute that passes. The count down has started, and I know one thing for sure.
If I sit around doing nothing for much longer, I'm dead.
