He knocked on the door.
The window slid open.
Recalling what he’d heard repeated by some of the crowd on the train, Mick said, “Two bits.”
“Do you have a card?”
For a town this size, this was a pretty sophisticated joint. “Need a new one,” he said.
“Five or ten?”
Mick took out his billfold, pulled out a five-dollar bill and slid it through the slot. “Five.”
The door opened and a guy with dark curly hair who looked like he threw bales of hay, one in each hand, all day long, every day, handed him a slip of thick paper with ten red x’s drawn on it.
Mick took the paper. “Thanks.” Ten drinks for five bucks. Plenty of places did this. Sold cards. One of the x’s would be crossed off each time he ordered a drink. The idea behind it was that the speakeasy wasn’t selling drinks. They merely sold “cover charges” for entering the joint, claiming it was for the entertainment—which at times was nothing more than a pig or chicken in a pen.
“Got a magician tonight,” the husky guy said. “And Rudy’s on the piano.”
Mick nodded as he walked past the guy and pushed open a second door. The place was big, and packed. A wooden bar ran the length of one wall. At the far end there was a piano in one corner with a man pounding on the keys, producing music for people to dance to on the floor near the far wall. Tables filled most of the room, with people gathered around them, talking, laughing and drinking beneath the strings of light bulbs hanging overhead.
Recognizing several from the train, Mick shouldered his way to the bar and handed another big man the ticket he’d purchased.
“How’s life?” the bartender asked. Another good-sized farm boy type of guy with slicked-back blond hair.
“Can’t complain,” Mick replied.
“Beer, hooch or cocktail?” The bartender’s barrel chest was so large, the buttons on his shirt were strained. “Any one of them will make life better.”
All three of the beverages were sure to be homemade, so going with the safest bet, Mick said, “Beer.”
The guy filled a mug from one of the kegs on a shelf behind him, slid the mug across the bar and crossed off one of the x’s on the card before handing it back.
Mick stepped away from the bar and then up against the wall at the end of the bar, giving room for the bartender to assist other customers, never making anyone wait a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
There were two other bartenders. Another big and young guy, who looked like the one he’d paid the five bucks to, was behind the other end of the bar and a young woman with a string of white pearls looped through her brown hair was behind the middle of the long bar.
He tried not to stare, but couldn’t help it. She was pretty, very pretty. But it was more than that. There were shelves of shot glasses behind her that she’d grab by the bases four at a time, fill them while still holding them in her palm and slide all four onto the bar without spilling a drop. She was so quick, so graceful, it almost looked like a magic trick.
A better trick than the guy dressed in a black tux, red shirt, and black and red cape who was walking around, slipping cards out from the cuffs of his shirt sleeve and pretending to pull coins out from behind the ears of those watching him. Not much of a magician, but it didn’t take much because the entertainment wasn’t why people were here.
They were here for the hooch. That’s what the woman was pouring in the handful of shot glasses she slid onto the bar nonstop. She also appeared to be the one running the joint. All questions from customers and the other bartenders were directed to her, and she had the answers. From where things were located to the magician’s name and that the entertainment tomorrow night would be a juggler named Beans who could juggle four bottles. Full ones, which evidently were harder to juggle than empty ones.
Mick had no idea if that was the case or not, and because his curiosity had been solved about where everyone from the train had gone, he took the last swallow of his beer and set his mug on the bar.
“Another one, mate?” the bartender asked.
Mick considered it, because the beer had been good. Not overly bitter like a lot of the joints back home. Prohibition had changed a lot of things, and whether he was an investigator for the police department or not, he appreciated a decent beer now and again. However, none of that had an iota to do with why he was here. He gave the bartender a one-finger wave. “No, thanks.”
Copyright © 2021 by Lauri Robinson
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ISBN-13: 9781488071812
Betrothed to the Enemy Viking
Copyright © 2021 by Michelle Styles
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Betrothed to the Enemy Viking Page 25
