The Roaring 20s
- Chicago, 1924 -

Secrets in this town came with a price. Some were trivial; a few trinkets could get you into a low-stakes poker game with a few undesirables on the waterfront, or a brown paper bag with slightly used giggle water.

The local constabulary didn't make things easy for a tourist. They were wired into the game, taking orders from those who bought and sold larger secrets.

Anyone with jack and the right combination of knuckle-wraps and words could put on the ritz in some of Chicago's swankiest back rooms, where jazz, poker chips and bathtub gin flowed with equal abandon.

"Once more, Johnny." She sat at the bar, allowing her hemline to drift just above the knee. The freedom of fashion. Corsets were out and comfort was in. Something told the redhead with the new bob haircut that she was going to enjoy the twentieth century. "And see if this time you can misplace the pieces of cork."

Sweat beaded on the temples of a piano player as he tinkered with the keys, the melody slightly out of tune but lively. A pair of clunky shoes set a rhythm for him on the hardwood. The dancer's heels kicked high, a string of pearls swaying against her breasts with each bend and bounce of the number. Only once did he strike the wrong note, leaning back on his bench to take a gander at her gams.

When the last measure was played, Rhiannon kissed the bald spot on his head and caught her breath. "You're a doll, Benny." She leaned against the instrument and fanned herself, taking note of the other faces. Rhiannon's body made an 'S' against the polished black. When it was offered, she lit a cigarette.

A redhead by the bar caught her eye. "Who's the new Jane?"

Benny followed the tip of her head and shrugged. "Don't know her from nothing."

"He was hitting on all cylinders, wouldn't you say?", the redhead commented towards the piano player. Johnny nodded in agreement as he put down a refreshed glass in front of the woman. He wasn't much for the gift of gab, and she wasn't complaining. Attention was the last thing the redhead was after; unfortunately the act of slipping an Old Gold from her purse brought out the worst from three nearby wet blankets armed with flint.

"Boys, boys, if I wanted your peepers on a three-sixty, I would've put on better glad rags. Go find yourselves another pushover." With that, slender fingers cupped the warm glass sloshing with newly-filled gin and the woman turned away.

Some mooks, however, couldn't take no for an answer. The closest pawed her arm. "Don't be a Mrs. Grundy," he growled. "We just wanna show yas a good time is all."

"Didn't you hear the lady, Nick?" The dark-haired woman appeared on the scene and leaned an elbow on the tough guy's shoulder. "The bank's closed. Now scram before you dig yourself a six-foot hole." Rhiannon's finger twisted lazily in her necklace. She waited to see if he'd put up a fight. The bartender's rag quit polishing.

"Says you," Nick grumbled, but he put his hands up and backed off.

Rhiannon watched him go and took up at the bar. "Hey Johnny, send him a drink on the house, would ya?" Throwing her weight around went down smoother if she greased the way with a bottle of hooch. It paid to have connections to the man in charge of the joint. She took a drag off her cigarette and eyed the redhead. "Don't mind him. The lights are on, but nobody's home."

"A real flat tire, he was." The gin went down easy. "Though I won't turn down the help. This outfit cost me more rubes than Joan of Arc's campaign to oust the English from Orleans." The redhead eyed the brunette, swept her hand out to take the seat next to her. The cigarette remained unlit. She had more important things to discover. Like the curves and line of pearls of the sheba opposite.

"This your joint then? Sending that palooka a mickey and all." The older woman motioned for a refill. "Or is your daddy lurking just outta sight?"

Rhiannon eased into a slow smile. "He's not my daddy, that's for sure."

She tapped her fingertip on the bar and a second glass came to rest there. The proper term for her was a gangster's moll, a thing everybody knew but nobody was flapping their gums about. You talked too much, you got taken for a ride. She tossed back a sip of gin just as Benny struck up another tune.

"You new in town? You must be." She had a sultry stillness about her, except in the brown eyes and the curving mouth. There was a drop of sweat at her collarbone.

The redhead nodded. "Blew in two nights ago. Took the night train from New York. The city may not sleep but this gal needs her shut-eye." She perused the trickle of moisture as it travelled lazily down to the neckline of the hotsy-totsy's dress and disappeared underneath. The brunette could make anyone's pulse race. "Quite the hoofer. Couldn't help but noticing."

She took another lick of the gin before settling the glass and holding out her hand. "Deanna."

"Good thing you caught the end of the show. These dogs are tired." Lifting her slight frame onto a seat, she took the weight off her black mary janes. "I'm Rhiannon." The flapper put down her cigarette and held out a hand, fingers downward for a shake.

"You came to the right place. A classy dame like you deserves the best bootleg around." Their hands clasped. "Good thing you clarified the shut-eye, too. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were on the lam."

Deanna held Rhiannon's hand a beat or two longer than polite society would dictate. "Then you'd be all wet, sister. Only a bluenose from the bible belt could make me hoof it faster than a breezer." She took hold of the brunette's cigarette and brought the burning end to her own, inhaling deeply. She returned it gingerly to the woman opposite. "And this chassis' got more than six cylinders under the hood."

"How about you, then," the older woman enquired. "Quite the egg."

"And how," Rhiannon agreed. It was a great-looking gig for a girl like her. Of course, the redhead didn't see her digging bullets out of her sweetheart, that time the punks came around and he wound up the fall guy. "I'm no gold-digger, if that's what you think." She picked up her Lucky Strike and tapped it. "Been carrying a torch for this one since he was running jobs for Eddie."

An arm extended leisurely back and she touched the short hair at her nape.

Deanna inhaled both the brunette's intoxicating scent and the flavor of the speakeasy. The tease of her surroundings gave the redhead a real edge, something she'd been missing for some time. "Should be the other way around," she giggled. Another breath from the cigarette, a halo of smoke surrounding the older woman. "You're the dame, you should be commanding all the men to stand in line."

Rhiannon tipped her head back to blow smoke at the ceiling. "Who says I gotta command them?" A wink between girls. She twisted the burning end into an ashtray and gave Johnny a friendly smile. "But they can stand there until the cows come home, ain't that right? I'm no double-crosser."

There was a commotion at the door. The newcomer straightened his lapels and looked around.

"Uh oh. Here comes the private dick." Rhiannon put her back to the hatted man. Whomever the visitor was, she looked none-too-pleased to receive him. Over on the piano, Benny fumbled a key.

The temperature in the joint dropped considerably. Johnny furiously polished dirty glassware while avoiding eye contact. Even Nick, the palooka in the corner shined away earlier, was in a concilliatory mood. Whoever the newcomer was, he was bad news. "Should I be puttin' a polish?" Deanna whispered to her new friend.

"Not unless you wanna look shady." Rhiannon touched her eyebrow and lifted one leg over the other, doing her best not to draw the investigator's attention to the bar. Being the only two women didn't make matters easier. The line of her back straightened as he removed his hat and placed it beside them.

Better to speak up now than wait to be baited like a fish. "What brings you by?" she asked, giving him the eye. "Everything's copacetic."

Johnny mumbled, "Cleaner than a church on Sunday."

The hatted man stood between the only two women in the gin joint, purposefully dropping his hat on the bar between them. For a figure that had all of the speakeasy's patrons at full rigor, he wasn't that physically imposing. For one, he was shorter than most, even its hostess. And hair thinning on top. Deanna couldn't see a bulge outlining a gun through the cheap fabric of his suit, which meant he wasn't packing. And yet...

"Protestant maybe," the P.I. mumbled. "You obviously haven't been in St. Rosa's Catholic Church in Lincoln Park." He picked up the butted cigarette Rhiannon recently deposited into an ashtray and rolled it between finger and thumb, as if looking for something specific. "Who's the bearcat?" he asked Rhiannon regarding the redhead, as if she wasn't sitting next to Rhiannon.

"She is Deanna, not that it's any of your beeswax," the redhead shot back. "And you've got a lot of attitude for someone who can barely measure up to my knees."

Rhiannon tucked her chin, letting the blunt ends of brown hair hide a laugh. "Aww, don't razz him too much," she advised. "He's short, but he's got a long reach." The P.I.'s sources were a well-guarded secret, the only thing keeping them from getting bumped off. Most likely some Dumb Dora with loose knees and a big mouth. If anybody ever figured out who the pushover was, it'd be a bad day in the neighborhood.

"Why don't you have a drink and get moving, A.W.?" she asked sweetly. "We're not looking for any trouble."

"Aw how sweet, he's named after a root beer," Deanna cooed. The glare he shot back gave her pause. "What, an observation is all."

A.W. put the cigarette back into the ashtray and sized up the redhead. "Problem is, Rhiannon," he spoke, not shifting his gaze, "trouble usually finds you. How's Joe by the way, any new scars to speak of?"

Johnny dropped a stubby bottle of beer in front of the private dick and retreated back against the bar, rattling several glasses. The man took the offering and swallowed hard. A.W. turned his eyes back to the brunette. "Your new friend left behind some hurt feelin's in New York, Rhiannon, and he'd pay handsomely to settle the score. Problem is, my sources say she was in the right. So I'm here ta figure out whether to catch or release. And you should ask whether you wanna get caught up in that net."

Her eyes narrowed. "Dry up, A.W., she's on the level. Besides... You wouldn't turn a dame over to some hard-boiled jerk who lays hands on her. Would you?" Rhiannon's fingertips lingered on the rim of her glass. "Or maybe after all this time, I've got you pegged for the wrong kinda guy."

Benny's upbeat tune took a nosedive.

Rhiannon's brow went up expectantly.

He took another swig from the bottle, shifting his gaze from the redhead to the brunette. He held her eyes for a fair amount of time, suggesting he was studying more than just the woman's words. "If I know she's here, then eventually someone else will. I can stall 'em for only so long."

Deanna slumped slightly in her stool. From relief or dread wasn't readily apparent. "I could use another one, Johnny," was her only response.

A.W. finished his beverage and set the bottle back down with a clink against Rhiannon's glass. "You may know me girl," he answered, "but there's a lot you'll never get to see." He picked up his fedora and put it firmly on his head. "Keep her safe, alright?"

He shambled back to the main door, stopping briefly to the bully who previously put pressure on the redhead. "I wouldn't if I were you, Nicholas. Not unless you were after an early exit." With that, he exited into the night.

Rhiannon put a friendly hand on Deanna's shoulder. "Atta-girl," she said, giving it a squeeze. "Don't worry about him. He's a pain but he won't sing." She slid the dead soldier towards Johnny and finished her gin. "But something told him you were in here. You might wanna get a wiggle on before whoever's looking comes nosing around."

Out of kindness, she offered, "I've got a place nearby. You can get some more shut-eye before you hit the road."

"Beats hitting the flop-house," Deanna smiled. "Show's what happens when you're left holding the bag, huh?" She squeezed her friend's hand, a gentle stroke over the web between Rhiannon's forefinger and thumb.

"The less I'm in public, the better chance to slip out of town unnoticed." The redhead took hold of her replenished drink and downed a third. "Just one question. Why are you helping? Any reasonable person'd drop a dime and collect the bounty. What makes you so different?"

"I've been out on my own before. If I hadn't run into my guardian angel, I could've been deader than a week-old corpse." Rhiannon shrugged and ran a finger beneath her pearls. "I'm just returning the favor." Looking to the bartender, she added, "Johnny, the redhead drinks on me."

Gathering up a purse, she crooked a finger. "Come on. We'll take the back way."