Flappers, mobsters, coppers. Subject: Speakeasy in full swing. Where: Diamond Dogs Speakeasy Who: Alessandra Moretti. Warnings: None. ...Yet. Open To: Anyone and everyone.
August in Boston was one Hell of a ride. While the sun was setting the heat-smell from the streets was still rising, thick and overwhelming, clouded with dust and sweat. Merchants began closing their shops, husbands hurried home to their wives, and the sweet, innocent-faced children were just about to be tucked into a snug bed. Quiet, as serene as any large city could ever hope to be, the town major fancied he could rest easy tonight. Preachers, Prohibition, and jailed Prostitues had ensured the souls of Boston's inhabitants would soon be saved. All would be well. All would be as God as intended.
Of course, not everyone agreed.
Alessandra Moretti was just hitting the streets when word spread. Some poor sod, found dead in an alleyway, a bullet between his crying eyes. Nothing to denote another's presence but the strangely haunting scent of perfume, and the distant click of heels. A secret smile as she heard the horrified whispers, creeping out from cracked windows and loosely-locked doors. In daylight Boston was a tribute to it's country, shining and prosperous. But when the moon rose, the creatures of the night came to play. Easily spotted, if you knew where to look, or whom to pay. Wherever the intoxicating aroma of tobacco, alcohol wafted, there you'd find them. Their breath was music, their lives made on the turn of a knife or speed of a bullet.
And that was exactly what the Italian broad, flashing her smile and swinging her hips, adored.
They said Lillian Dawes was to be singing that night, down at the old Diamond Dogs. A tiny, cramped place, packed shoulder-to-shoulder most nights, filled with smoke thick enough to choke and hooch tossed around like c-notes. All in all, the perfect place, the best in town, and one Miss Moretti was known for visiting nightly.
"Ciao, bello," was the call she gave to the man at the door, the bartender. "The usual, my darling," she purred out, leaning herself against the bartop and using every bit of feminine wiles to procure a whisky straight (she had a habit of undertipping, you know).
When the drink was in hand, she at last had a moment to look around. Early, still, the place wouldn't start to swing for a couple of hours. Time to play the waiting game.