Money and Guns

Money, Lucy decided, was a good thing. It bought other things, like dresses, minks and pearls. All good things. 

The downside of money was when people knew you had it. Now she understood why the wealthy were so cagey about how much scratch they were actually worth. 

Lucy had cleaned up at Lady Towne’s cardroom. Starting the evening with her innocent, “oopsie, beginner’s luck” routine which helped dull the sting as she raked her tablemates chips. But by the end of the night, it was clear who was the card sharp and who was the sharpie. Her winning streak culminating in a game against Mr. Hugo, a man too handsome to be that wealthy. Doing her part to balance the cosmic scales, Lucy took a healthy dent out of Mr. Hugo’s billfold. 

She left the speakeasy in high spirits. Unable to hail a cab at such a late hour, and feeling indomitable after such a run of luck, she decided to hoof it. It was only a 10 block walk, she told herself, failing to remember that they were dimly lit 10 blocks, through very questionable neighborhoods. Not to mention the route took her along the river’s edge, a place known by both lovers and thieves for its seclusion. 

Her heels clicked and clacked along the cobblestone path. Across the river the dim lights of the longshoremen glowed, still toiling, or perhaps just starting their day. The night was silent, save for the distant, ethereal clatter of ship’s rigging, the sound of her own footsteps, and—

She stopped. Not for the first time, she thought she heard something. Someone? She listened. Far off an automobiles’ horn honked, and she cursed herself for not waiting for a cab. But nothing else. No pursing footsteps. 

Raising her chin, she continued on. Either it was a vampire, werewolf, or some other unsavory creature like a male suitor, and she’d have to deal with it, or it wasn’t and her mind was playing tricks on her.

Ahead, the path lead through a short tunnel. She’d walked this way many times before. Even in daylight, the tunnel was a gloomy place.

She entered. It stank of wet, and urine. Her footsteps echoed off the tunnel’s arch as she passed through. Her footsteps… and another’s. 

She sped up. The footsteps behind her sped up. Ahead, the tunnel exit. The path there illuminated by the full moon. She didn’t run, not yet. But she hurried. 

Bursting into the moonlight, she spun about, looking into the maw of the pitch-black tunnel, listening as the footsteps grew louder, nearer. 

For the first time in a long time, she wished for a purse. 

Lucy hated purses. Was famous for it. Her tombstone would read, “Here lies Lucy, lover of champagne, hater of purses.” She felt her hate was a reasonable thing. Why carry around some stupid little bag? Too small to hold anything of substance, too cumbersome to be tuck in your brasier. Make no mistake, if dresses only had pockets, all women would be free from the shackles of carrying the over priced satchels. 

Such strong convictions left Lucy with limited luggage options though. She’d taken to hiding all here need-to-haves on her body. For example, she had her newly won 4 thousand dollars tucked into the hem of her left garter belt. A lipstick in her bra. Extra bobby-pins (or lock picks depending on the mood) porcupining her head. 

 But, like money, the sans-purse lifestyle had downsides. Purses were mighty convenient for carrying firearms. Or at least firearms of a reasonable caliber. 

Now, as those footsteps grew closer, she badly wanted big stupid purse, with a big stupid clasp, and within, an even bigger, stupider gun. Something long, shiny, with bullets as big as her thumb. 

But one must make do with what one has at hand.

She lifted the hem of her dress, her milky white thighs glowing in the moonlight, and extracted the snub nose 22 revolver tucked into her garter. 

The gun’s nickel plating glinted, its snake skin grip warm in her hand. It was no elephant stopper, but it would get the job done.

Or, she hoped it would.