Lucy

Jill had never seen Lucy’s apartment before, and didn’t bother to hide it. “Your place is, ah, swell. Has a lot of…” “Boxes?” Lucy asked. “I was gonna to say charm.” Lucy snorted. “Stop Jill. You’ve known me too long. It’s a mess. I just haven’t had time to unpack.” “How long have you lived here?” “Oh, no more than three years.

The barrel of her gun shook, wobbling left, then right, up, then down. It was a six-shot revolver, but she always left an empty chamber under the hammer, in case she accidentally dropped it and it went off—a mistake she wasn’t willing to make twice. Still, with 5 shots she reckoned she could hit a man-sized target, despite her jittery hands.

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.

“I don’t think your real name is Lucy,” Mr. Hugo said. “Is that so?” Most of the patrons (but only half the smoke) had cleared out from the back room at Lady Towne’s Speakeasy. Lucy finally could see her opponent clearly. His blonde hair, so oiled up, slicked back, and golden, she figured he charged his barber to let the man cut it.