argued it was self-defense when Theodore was arrested, only to be told to shut up or he’d be arrested, too. He hadn’t been about to shut up, and went to the police station, still arguing, trying to prove Theodore’s innocence. He was kicked out several times, and finally went to a lawyer, hoping for help.
Arthur Marlow hadn’t been willing to take on the case, not at first, but Walter hadn’t given up. He and Theodore had been as close as brothers, and he’d had to help him. Had to. With no money to pay the attorney, Walter begged Marlow to let him work off the fees to represent Theodore. Arthur eventually agreed and Walter had thought everything would work out perfectly.
It hadn’t.
The jangle of the phone pulled Walter out of the past. He entered his office and crossed the room.
Hope. That’s what that girl from Nebraska said she had. He’d had that once, too. So had Theodore.
Picking up the phone, Walter held the receiver to his ear and the mouthpiece to his mouth. “Hello.”
“Walter? Walter, that you?”
Instantly recognizing Sam Wharton’s voice, Walter answered, “Yes, Sam, it’s me. How are you this evening?”
“Good. Real good. I’m down at CB’s, and Tony Ebbert and I need some legal advice. Can you drive over here?”
Sam had been a client for years; the money he’d paid for assistance on business deals had nearly paid for Walter’s house.
Walter considered the request for a moment. Normally, he’d suggest a meeting in his office tomorrow, but an evening out could be exactly what he needed to get his mind off other things, including that girl from Nebraska, and on to things that mattered. “Sure, Sam. I’ll be there shortly.”
“Hee-haw!” Sam replied with his signature statement. “See you soon!”
Cartwright’s Basement would never be his first choice to visit. Known as CB’s, it was downtown, in the basement of the ten-story Cartwright building. The main level was a grocery store, the upper levels apartments, including a floor where the girls who worked at CB’s lived and used for alternate activities.
There were too many speakeasies like CB’s within the city to count and Walter had figured out long ago that some things a person just had to accept. Like them or not.
He grabbed his suitcoat, told Mrs. McCaffrey he was going out and walked out the back door and to the garage.
After opening the wide double doors, he climbed in the car and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life with so much power the seat shook. The car was a luxury. There hadn’t been anything wrong with his old one, except that he’d wanted a new one, and getting it had been easy, unlike some of the other things he’d wanted. Still wanted but continued to tell himself that he didn’t.
He backed the car out and onto the road, then grinned as he shifted into First and laid his foot on the gas pedal. The roadster was a dream to drive.
Morning, noon or night, traffic always rolled up and down the streets downtown, and Walter had to circle the block before he found a place to park. He climbed out, then took the sidewalk to the alley, where the entrance to CB’s was located.
The joint might be in the basement, but their secret had long been released. Everyone, including the police, knew where it was located and what went on in there, as well as hundreds of other places. In fact, there were just as many laws on the city books to protect the speakeasy owners as there were against prohibition. Federal agents didn’t have a hope in hell of upholding the laws Congress had passed.
Cigarette and cigar smoke swirled up the steps as he walked down them, and music echoed off the walls, as did joyous laughter and the murmur of conversations.
He entered the long and wide room full of tables and an elaborately carved wooden bar that ran the entire length of the back wall. A band played music at the far end, where people danced, and cigarette girls sashayed around the tables, wearing tight, short red dresses and carrying more than packs of cigarettes in the white wooden trays hooked around their necks with thick white straps.
Walter scanned the chairs, looking for Sam and Tony. He and Sam noticed each other at the same time. Sam stood, waved one of his long and gangly arms. Where he found shirts with sleeves that long had been the topic of more than one conversation.
Weaving his way toward Sam, Walter nodded and said hello to numerous people at various other tables. Some he knew well, others were mere acquaintances, and a few, he wouldn’t mind never seeing again.
“Hey, Walter. I ordered you a drink,” Sam said, his straw-colored hair sticking out from beneath the rim of his flat tweed hat. “The good stuff. Have a seat. You know Tony.”
“Thanks.” Walter took a seat and nodded at Tony. A redheaded heavyweight champion boxer who had a good chance at the world title this year. “Good seeing you, Tony. Congrats. Hear this could be your year.”
“It sure could,” Tony replied with a voice so low it had to come from the depths of his stomach.
The conversation bounced from boxing to cars, to the latest rumors, including who had financed the building of the new theater, and back to boxing. Walter had finished his drink during that time, and enjoying the camaraderie, he reached out to snag a cigarette girl so he could order another drink.
Catching one by the arm, he twisted to tell her, “I’d like another—”
The startled blue eyes looking down at him stopped his ability to speak. To think. Except for remembering her eyes looked exactly like they had when he’d rounded his car and saw her sitting on her butt on the pavement.
She tugged her arm out of his hold just like she had that day. “Another what?” she asked.
“Whatever you got on that tray, darling,” Sam said.
She kept her eyes averted as she set three drinks on the table and then spun around.
Walter jumped to his feet and followed. She stopped at the bar to refill her tray, and he stepped up beside her.
“What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low to not draw attention.
“Getting more drinks.” She set drinks of rotgut on her tray.
He firmly but gently turned her to face him. “I mean, what are you doing here? Working at CB’s?”
Her eyes snapped as she stepped back. “We can’t all start at the top, but we still gotta start or we won’t get anywhere.”
“What? This isn’t a start. It’s a dead end.” He meant that literally and pulled out his pocketbook. “If you need money for the train ride, I’ll give it to you. Right now.” He held out several bills. “Take it. Go back to Nebraska.”
She glanced around as if making sure no one was looking. He hoped that meant she’d finally come to her senses.
Settling her gaze on him, she asked, “What’s in that noggin’ of yours? Nothing? I don’t want your money, and I ain’t—am not going back to Nebraska.” She pulled several bills out from beneath an ashtray on her tray and handed them to the bartender.
Walter knew how these joints worked. The girls had to pay for the drinks on their trays, and then collect the money from the customers. Any spilled drinks or unpaid ones came out of their pockets, not the owners’. “You aren’t going to make enough money here—”
“Beat it,” she whispered fiercely. “And mind your own beeswax while you’re at it!” She spun in the other direction and marched off.
With a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, the bartender leaned across the bar. “That dame’s a closed bank, forget her. We got ones that are more...friendly. For a couple of clams, I’ll send one to your table.”
“No, thanks.” Walter walked back to his table and positioned his chair so he could keep an eye on the room. On her.