∞ never tell me the odds ∞ (lemniscate) wrote in write_lab, @ 2014-09-17 15:33:00 |
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The thing about going to a blind pig was that you had to look at the pigs--or whatever species of animal the proprietor pretended to offer--or at least pretend to before you got your cheap bathtub gin and settled at a table with your glass. In a big city like New York or Chicago, you had some hope of getting decent booze. Out here in the country, there were no fancy flipping cabinets that would dump the booze into the sewer, nor so many imports from Canada. Just a lot of homemade hooch. Still, it was enough to keep Frances warm as she settled into the hard wooden chair, her threadbare coat draped over the back while she pondered her next move. Her most recent novel hadn't sold as well as she had hoped. No surprise, given that nobody had extra money for leisure reading. Slowly, the assignments for short stories in various magazines had dried up as well. Now she had come home from the big city to winter with her family, hoping for inspiration to strike. After spending Christmas snowbound, she'd managed to catch a train into what passed for a city to speak with her agent. The truth was that she'd come to look for inspiration. There were enough people in the city that surely someone or something could provide the creative spark Frances was looking for. And surely in a speakeasy like this, some fellow would want to sit next to a pretty girl with rosy cheeks and dark curls. Maybe he'd have a life story to spill that could spark her next tale. And some fellow did. Clarence Gale spent most of his time running between the city and the corn stills out in Templeton, and he spent most of his time in speakeasies when he made it to town. He knew all the regulars, and he could tell immediately that this woman was not one, if only that she dressed just a bit more big city. He slid into the chair next to hers, draping his arm across the back as though it were a leather armchair and not a glorified farm stool. A pipe rested in the corner of his mouth with all the casual confidence of Bing Crosby. He grinned at the woman and pointed at his pipe. "Say, what's a fellow got to do for the pleasure of a light?" "Ask politely, Mister--" and Frances trailed off there suggestively, letting him drop his name into the trailing silence while she fished her lighter out of her handbag to offer the gentleman a light. Her coat fell back a little as she moved, showing her dress: nothing so fancy and stylish as a man could see in the picture shows, but handsome enough for a night out. The handbag was quality leather, without any cracks, but it had seen better days to the eyes of a man who knew even a little about cowhide. She held the lighter ready for Clarence to offer the pipe. "Gale. Clarence Gale. And you are -- ?" Rather than hand the pipe over when the woman retrieved her lighter, Clarence simply leaned across the table, a roguish glint in his eye. Frances lit him up with a little grin of her own, head lowered enough that she was looking through her eyelashes at Clarence. "Frances Mayne. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gale." She dropped the lighter back into her purse; she was out of cigarettes at the moment. "Pleasure's all mine." Clarence took a few contemplative puffs on the end of his pipe before deciding to blow a smoke ring. Back home on the farm, they'd had to make their own fun, and showing off with the boys was a good a pastime as any. He looked the woman over again. He had known she wasn't a regular, and her clothes, though clearly not new, had the look of a city dame. Clarence had always been a straight-shooter, so he figured he might as well ask. "You're not from around here, are you?" Frances shook her head in the negative, still smiling as if that might soften the implications of a no. "I live outside Pleasantville, with my sister. I'm in town on business." She took a sip from her glass, which hadn't turned out to be as terrible as she'd feared, even if it wasn't up to New York standards. "And while I'm here, might as well have a bit of a good time, right?" Her eyes were following the smoke ring as it left the end of Clarence's pipe and drifted upward across the table, not exactly toward her but sort of past her. "That's a neat trick." "I've learned a thing or two in my time," Clarence said, with a hint of irony. He still considered himself a young man, not yet thirty and not yet respectable -- but if becoming respectable meant giving up the excitement of living on the wrong side of the law, he could do without. He blew another smoke ring, just to show off for the pretty girl. "I'm here on business too," he added. "But business can be a good time when this is your industry." He waved an arm to indicate the room. Though the ceiling was low, the lights dim, and the glasses all unmatched, the people in the room drank and laughed like they would in New York City's finest speakeasy. Or at least, how Clarence thought they would. Frances' eyes lit up as Clarence's gesture encompassed the whole of the chamber. Here was someone who made the booze they sold here, or at least brought it here for the locals to imbibe and enjoy. There were all sorts of secrets in that business; interesting details that Frances could shape a story around, and maybe sell it to some magazine in Chicago or New York. "Sounds like it could be fun, never mind the perks of the job." She tilted her head at the glasses on the table. "Beats going to some office every day, or a lot of other things you could be doing." For too many men Frances knew, or knew of, that was nothing, since the big market crash had turned off the spigot of free-flowing money that made everything go round. "A fellow does get to meet some interesting people and beautiful women in a job like this," Clarence said with a wink. His voice took on a slightly more somber tone. "But he spends an awful lot of time on the road, and it's a long, lonely road to Templeton." The smile on Frances' face broadened a little and her head dipped forward by way of acknowledging the implicit compliment. "It's always sad to be on a lonely road, but if there's something good waiting at the end of it, maybe that makes the trip worthwhile." She raised her glass to him and the end of his trip before taking another drink. The indirect method didn't seem to be getting anywhere, so Frances went for the direct. "Tell me about Templeton, and about the road you've been on." Most fellows couldn't wait to get started after an invitation like that, since they also heard the unspoken request to talk about themselves. Clarence hesitated. He took a slow drag on his pipe, then another. He liked this girl, and he could tell her so many stories about life on the road, but he had a better idea. "Now, I don't normally suggest this," he said, leaning over the table and looking deep into Frances's eyes. "In fact, I've never suggested it before, but you seem like the kind of gal who'd like an adventure." He stood up, and held out a hand, offering to help Frances to her feet. "My Lincoln is parked out back. What if I do you one better and show you?" It might be a little dangerous, but there would be a story at the end of it for her, Frances knew. She threw back the rest of her drink and grinned at Clarence. "Let's go." She grinned and offered him a hand. |