Categories > Original > Romance > Simple Pleasures
This happened in a bar in downtown Chicago. The year was 1924. Prohibition and flappers were both in full swing. Tall angry men in suits and fedoras carried Tommy guns into the back rooms of speakeasies where honest men working honest jobs would stop and have a drink of dishonest whiskey.
He did not fall into either category. He did not wear the standard striped suit and he did not carry a Tommy gun, but he was not a wholly honest man either. His hair was still black and long, held back in a tie. His eyes were periwinkle blue. He wore a plain white button down shirt and black pants and sat sipping a tall glass of whiskey on the rocks. It was the good kind, brought in from Canada. Most of these other sobs would pay half a day's wages to get a small shot of the doctored stuff. The shit they made down in Tennessee that would give a man gut rot. Good money and good connections bought the good stuff and he had both by now.
He sat off to the side in a small booth lit only by the slag glass lamp that swung idly on its brass chain. New addition that, he noticed, giving it a bare glance. Green and dark blue glass, not yet dimmed and tainted by the oppressive cloud of smoke that always hung around the room. People smoked a lot in speakeasies.
He let the end of his own cigarette burn down to a stub before crushing it out in the dirty aluminum ashtray. Aside from the tray, the table was empty and scarred. Deep burns and groves marred the surface, giving the table a unique character all its own. So-and-so loves such-and-such. All was fair in love and war and human nature. He ran his finger over a heart-shaped cut and wondered idly if the two mentioned were still enthusiastic about the whole deal. Maybe, maybe not. He'd lost the ability to tell years ago.
One of the dancing girls who paraded in and out through the tables came over and slid into the booth next to him. "Hey baby," she cooed. "You look lonely." He glanced around for her pimp and spotted him. Purple suit and dark hat pulled down over his eyes standing in the corner by the bar, but he was watching. They always watched.
She had a figure on her, rounded and well fed, plump, peaches-n-cream breasts and pouty, wine-stained lips. Her arms and legs were bruise and track free. The pimp treated his girls well by all appearances and from one professional to another, he respected that.
It was a testament to the amount fine whiskey that had been poured in and sipped out of his glass over the course of the evening that he asked, "How much?"
"You're quick on the draw, ducky," she cooed as if she knew no other way to speak. "Your accent's a little off though. Where you from, huh?"
He threw back the rest of his drink and set the glass back down on the table. The ice clinked. "I come from Russia a few years ago before the Soviets come to power." A lie technically, but only technically. She slid a hand up his thigh. He liked girls like this, they accepted answers like that and didn't beg for more information. She was a Professional, probably a partner to the pimp, or maybe she employed him. Some girls did, the ones with brains; they used bodyguards.
"Hmm... We'll talk details upstairs if you're interested," she said, letting her fingers walk up his shirt. "What do I call you?"
"Dimitri." And then he took her upstairs.
The Feds broke into the establishment five minutes later. His shirt was barely unbuttoned.
He did not fall into either category. He did not wear the standard striped suit and he did not carry a Tommy gun, but he was not a wholly honest man either. His hair was still black and long, held back in a tie. His eyes were periwinkle blue. He wore a plain white button down shirt and black pants and sat sipping a tall glass of whiskey on the rocks. It was the good kind, brought in from Canada. Most of these other sobs would pay half a day's wages to get a small shot of the doctored stuff. The shit they made down in Tennessee that would give a man gut rot. Good money and good connections bought the good stuff and he had both by now.
He sat off to the side in a small booth lit only by the slag glass lamp that swung idly on its brass chain. New addition that, he noticed, giving it a bare glance. Green and dark blue glass, not yet dimmed and tainted by the oppressive cloud of smoke that always hung around the room. People smoked a lot in speakeasies.
He let the end of his own cigarette burn down to a stub before crushing it out in the dirty aluminum ashtray. Aside from the tray, the table was empty and scarred. Deep burns and groves marred the surface, giving the table a unique character all its own. So-and-so loves such-and-such. All was fair in love and war and human nature. He ran his finger over a heart-shaped cut and wondered idly if the two mentioned were still enthusiastic about the whole deal. Maybe, maybe not. He'd lost the ability to tell years ago.
One of the dancing girls who paraded in and out through the tables came over and slid into the booth next to him. "Hey baby," she cooed. "You look lonely." He glanced around for her pimp and spotted him. Purple suit and dark hat pulled down over his eyes standing in the corner by the bar, but he was watching. They always watched.
She had a figure on her, rounded and well fed, plump, peaches-n-cream breasts and pouty, wine-stained lips. Her arms and legs were bruise and track free. The pimp treated his girls well by all appearances and from one professional to another, he respected that.
It was a testament to the amount fine whiskey that had been poured in and sipped out of his glass over the course of the evening that he asked, "How much?"
"You're quick on the draw, ducky," she cooed as if she knew no other way to speak. "Your accent's a little off though. Where you from, huh?"
He threw back the rest of his drink and set the glass back down on the table. The ice clinked. "I come from Russia a few years ago before the Soviets come to power." A lie technically, but only technically. She slid a hand up his thigh. He liked girls like this, they accepted answers like that and didn't beg for more information. She was a Professional, probably a partner to the pimp, or maybe she employed him. Some girls did, the ones with brains; they used bodyguards.
"Hmm... We'll talk details upstairs if you're interested," she said, letting her fingers walk up his shirt. "What do I call you?"
"Dimitri." And then he took her upstairs.
The Feds broke into the establishment five minutes later. His shirt was barely unbuttoned.
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