Page 99 of Working for the Mob

He knocked on the door in rhythm, twice. I jumped as an earsplitting screech erupted from beside me, metal on metal. I whirled my head towards the noise; a metal mailbox door stood open to the side.

“Hang on,” he said, and leaned across me. He reached for my hair and after a tug, pulled the Gerbera out.

While I stood there puzzled, he threw the flower into the open mailbox and shut it. “Hey, that was mine!” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Art shut the mailbox and even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was enjoying himself. But I wasn’t. A man had just taken my flower without permission!

The door swung open to reveal a brown-eyed man, with a bright red beard, a knit newsboy hat, and a tweed jacket.

“Come on in,” the man said, as though nothing could make him happier. He wore a smile that could warm Scrooge with frostbite. “Will it just be the two of you tonight?”

I peered around the man to see the cramped speakeasy, with black wooden booths and red cushioned seats. Although a jazz quintet played an upbeat tune in the corner, the dance floor remained empty.

“We are expecting one more,” Art said.

“Follow me then,” the man said, and lead us further from the bar, away from the jazz band.

Art slid into the booth, but when I went to sit across from him, he stopped me.

“We’ll need to leave room for Harry.”

I didn’t want to be seen sitting that close to a man without being married first. If anyone from my mother’s book club caught us, (or Madame Levie!) I would become the gossip across Manhattan circles for weeks. However, the night club was mostly empty and I doubted whether the jazz band knew anyone from my mother’s book club.

“Now I actually knowwhowe’re meeting,” I said, and sat next to him. My reproachful look didn’t have nearly as much effect as it did before sex.

“I haven’t exactly met him either,” Art said. “Only a couple phone calls. Even then, we didn’t go into specifics. He’s been very uptight.”

“You’re moving hooch across state lines. He’s probably afraid of the feds,” I said, and tried to include more of a warning into my words. Art just shrugged.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked, changing the subject.

A drink? Was I supposed to drink alcohol? I suppose so since that’s what people ordered in a speakeasy. But I hadn’t drank anything since it became outlawed.

“Come on, I’ll let you pick,” Art said, and pushed me out of the booth.

Behind the bar, the bartender, a short man with a comb-over and fishbowl eyes, fixed one hazel eye on Art.

“You Mr. Necci?” he asked in a gruff voice, and I froze. Was this a set up? Were the cops here waiting to pounce on us?

“Yes,” Art said, nonchalant.

“You have a message. Mr. Harry is running late. He paid for a free round of drinks and offers his apologies,” the barman said, and he took our orders. I ordered a Bees Knees with honey and a lemon wedge, and we returned to our booth. Each sip was happiness in a cup.

“We’ve got to thank Mr. Harry for these,” I said back in the booth.

“With the money we’ll be making from this deal, we’re going to thank him for a lot more than that,” he said.

The jazz band switched to a song I knew with a swinging beat.

“I love this song, “ I blurted out––the alcohol may already be impacting my words.

Art threw back his entire drink. “Then let’s dance,” he said, and I scoffed. I couldn’t imagine Art dancing.

He nudged me out of my seat and I let out a high-pitched squeal I would never have done sober.

“Come on. Let’s get out there before it’s over,” Art said, pushed me out of the booth, and dragged me onto the dance floor.

I felt everyone’s eyes on me once I stepped onto the wooden ground. I knew I wore the hell out of my dress, but people here assumed Art and I were a couple. Something neither of us agreed to. No matter how many times we did whatever it was we did in the hotel room.

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