1930s Chicago. Notorious gangster Tom "Tommy Gun" Holland has been storming his way through Cook County, robbing banks and breaking hearts. One day you find yourself in the wrong place, at the wrong time when he makes a hit on your bank. There's...
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"Room 11, on the end," said the motel clerk to Tommy. You watched, out of sight, as he handed Tommy the key and change. He tipped his hat to the man and walked past you without even a glance. You pouted to yourself, but then he pinched your rear end discretely, before swaggering towards the motel room. He unlocked the door and winked at you before stepping inside.
You took a deep breath. Okay, here goes nothing!
You strutted up to the counter and flashed a sultry smile at the clerk. He looked about as sleazy as your slumlord. Greasy stains covered his tinged tee shirt. The cigar propped in his mouth looked like it'd been gnawed on for centuries. And that smell - it reminded you of that time a bad batch of beans made it down the assembly line at the cannery.
"Pack of Luckies, please," you said with a flip of your hair. You handed him a ten spot, leaning your elbows on the counter. You made sure to give him a good look. He took his time ogling you as he handed you back your change.
"Thanks, Mister," you said with a small wink and turned to leave. You stopped, turning around quickly. You looked down at the money in your hand and frowned.
"This is a fiver, Mister. I gave you a twenty," you said.
"No, you gave me a ten," the clerk said with a gruff.
You strutted back to the counter, shaking your head.
"No, I gave you a twenty, Mister. I just know I did," you said. Your chin started to tremble.
"Listen, kitten, you gave me a ten and I gave you change for a ten. You think I don't know how to count?" he growled.
Time for the waterworks.
You bowed your head and started sobbing, squeezing out any tears that sprung up. You looked back up at him, redfaced and in near hysterics.
"No, Mister, you don't! I gave you a twenty and I know because my daddy gave me that money for my birthday. He even wrote on it, 'Happy Birthday, Addie.' That's me. I'm Addie and my daddy worked hard for that money."
You placed your head in your hands and cried harder. You watched him through your fingers as he opened the till and rummaged through the bills.
He produced a twenty with the written message, just as you said. He immediately started apologizing, frantically counting out the change for a twenty.
You sniffed and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand.
"Here, kitten, have a root beer, on me." He grabbed a bottle from the shelf and popped the cap for you. "Just please stop crying," he said awkwardly.
"Thank you, Mister. Times are so tough right now. I hope we get out of this depression soon. I don't know how much more my daddy can take," you said sadly and gave a dramatic heave of your chest. He leered at your chest as it rose and fell.
