The Queen of Gin and Lies, page 1
The Queen of Gin and Lies
SJ Gallion
Copyright © 2023 SJ Gallion
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Dedicated to my wonderful husband of twelve years (and going). He's every cocky love interest I'll ever write.
Chapter 1
“Hello, suckers,” red lips teased from behind a cigarette holder. Kohl-lined eyes surveyed the small, raucous club from atop its center table, high above the sea of bobs and feathered headbands. “Welcome to The Starry Night,” the host purred with a delighted, feral grin as the jazz band slid into a slow, sensual rhythm. “The speakeasy the gossip columns are calling immoral and hedonistic.” Swaying her hips and taking a long drag, she cocked that glossy, blonde, Marcel-waved head and blew smoke out between pursed lips before smiling. “I am your Mistress of Sin, your bawdiest broad, your Queen of the Night,” she announced to a rapt crowd, laughing as glasses were raised. “I am Maggie Worth,” she finished. “As in worth every penny, dime, quarter, and fat stack you’ll spend here.”
Hollers, whoops, and applause wrapped around Maggie’s ethereal figure. She glowed in the spotlight, every swirling, beaded pattern of her low-cut, drop waist, golden sheath dress illuminated, glinting. Her stockings shimmered up her slim calves until they stopped, rolled short to just below her rouged knees.
“If you've never been here before,” she crooned. “Just leave your wallet on the bar, loosen that noose around your finger.” She winked at a businessman dragging his eyes down her long legs. “And let Miss Maggie and her girls show you a damn good time.” She put two manicured nails to her mouth and let out a long, lilting whistle.
The girls Maggie spoke of filed out of doors on either side of the bar across the room. Regulars of The Starry Night turned around in their seats, ready. Others craned their necks to get a sight of the spectacle.
Eight women, all wearing seemingly nothing but the large, brightly colored ostrich feathers they brandished in front of and behind them, danced around and between the close tables.
Miss Maggie grinned atop her perch on the table, scanning the faces around her as shock, awe, and delight filled the room.
“Give these girls a big hand, fellas,” she encouraged from her roost. Quieter, she continued, “And they might just let one of those feathers fall.”
The crowd laughed, clambering to see the dancers as they sashayed around the dim nightclub. The bright plumage stood in stark contrast against the midnight-dark walls, and the inky black ceiling. Chandeliers and candles illuminated the small space, their light reflecting off of thousands of tiny bits of mirrored glass embedded in the plaster, creating the illusion of stars in a night sky. The brightest star of them all, though, was in the room's center.
Over the din of the crowd, Maggie’s voice commanded attention. “And if a prohi shows up that I haven’t paid off, well…” She shrugged, her dazzling smile mischievous. “My story is the same as always.” She turned to look around at the different tables in turn, pointing her finger at each group. “You all brought this hooch with you; I’m just entertaining you.”
Glasses raised around her in uproarious agreement as she threw her blond head back and laughed.
Two men jumped from their seats to help Maggie down, kicking a chair out for her to step on. They were young, maybe just a few years older than her twenty-five, their hair slicked back with the severe part so fashionable among the hoity-toity. Maggie recognized the Romanesque nose on one and the rigid posture on the other from tabloid pictures. The richer-than-God Elliot brothers were notorious partiers and womanizers, constantly popping up in the gossip columns for their dalliances with bored married women, their scandalous associations with the gin-loving speakeasy crowd, and their obscene misappropriation of Daddy's money.
Maggie set her crosshairs on both of them.
“Thanks, boys,” she teased, a twinkle in her eye. She glanced at the table and saw a slew of empty glasses, smelled the fumes of alcohol between the brothers. Maggie's smile turned sickly sweet. “Can I get you boys a refill?”
The brothers were giddy as she promised to be right back to serve them personally. She left them laughing and turned, flouncing her way to the bar.
She passed a couple of New York’s finest relaxing and drinking in the corner, their own fan dancer giggling, dancing around them. They tipped their hats to Maggie as she passed with a wink.
Maggie sidled up to the bar with a smile at her bartender. She sighed, “I love prohibition, Jerry.”
Jerry was quiet and dependable, had worked with her when she was nothing, and had stayed with her all these crazy years. He smirked as he wiped down the bar. “Can I get you something, Miss Maggie?”
Maggie grinned. “Mama needs a strong, hot, stiff one, honey.” Her voice naturally carried across the bar. One man spluttered into his drink.
Jerry only nodded with a smirk and disappeared through one of the side doors behind the bar.
Maggie couldn’t help that she shocked people; Irish-American, cocksure and loud was in her blood. The combination didn’t do her many favors as a child; nuns at a catholic school didn’t care for loud, spirited girls, but that spirit did wonders for her career. It turns out, people weren’t just sneaking out to have an illicit drink; they were looking to be entertained. The nation won a war, had made sacrifices. Now, a bunch of prudes wanted to clean up and keep the menfolk sober and at home with their wives. They wanted the young men and women to be shrewd and responsible.
Boring.
Maggie had tried to follow society’s rigid rules and had tried to be a good girl. She got herself a good education and a good, steady man. She was all set to get married when she was twenty. But, she couldn’t ignore the thundering will of her wild heart.
So, she ran away. She hoofed it thousands of miles to New York City. The transition hadn’t been easy, and she’d put up with some degrading work, but here she was, the owner of the glitziest, wildest nightclub in Manhattan. Criminals and moguls, heiresses, and housewives all threw their cover charge at Maggie, desperate for her brand of rowdy entertainment.
Jerry returned with a small, steaming mug of coffee. He set it down in front of Maggie and her eyes lit up.
“Thank you,” she breathed, taking a sip of the rich, bitter drink and letting her eyes flutter closed with a sigh.
Remembering her targets, Maggie looked to the bartender over the rim of the mug. “I’m also going to need a couple of gin and tonics for our cream-drinkin' kittens over there,” she instructed with a wink.
Jerry nodded once with that ever-present smile as he poured a minute amount of gin into two glasses of ice.
Maggie watched him work his magic. He topped the liquor with tonic water and then added just a splash of ginger ale. Jerry was a master at making very little go a long way. Pickings were slim during prohibition, but word had it that the cocktails at The Starry Night were the cream of the crop. Maggie used only the real McCoy, fresh off the boat. Getting good hooch was difficult, though. Maggie shuddered, thinking of the hoops she had to jump through to ensure her club had liquor to sell.
“Jerry, honey, how are we doing on supplies?” she asked, a little wary.
Her bartender peeked up at her, that sharp mind calculating. “Two more nights of whiskey, one each of rum and gin,” he rattled off as he sliced a lime into thin wedges.
Maggie nodded, scowling. “I'll make a run tomorrow." Making the trip to the warehouse—to the club’s co-owner, her partner and supplier—was an odious chore. She shook off the jitters as Jerry finished garnishing the brothers' drinks. “You know,” Maggie cooed as she leaned across the bar with a smirk. “The word around town is that the younger brother’s tastes are quite varied.”
Her bartender’s small mouth quirked at one corner, and those bright eyes slipped to her own as he set the drinks on the bar, leaning forward. His low voice was smooth as honey. “I don’t much care for the soft, silver-spoon type,” he replied. “Unless he’s looking to learn a thing or two.” Jerry winked as he moved to help a customer. “Then it would be my pleasure.”
Maggie laughed as she took the drinks. “That's just the kind of gossip I long to read.”
The club was in full swing as she made her way back to her prosperous prey. The brothers had a cocktail waitress cornered, trying to convince her to sit on their laps.
“Gentlemen,” Maggie announced as she barged between the brothers and the waitress. “Your refreshments have arrived.”
The brothers glared in her direction before their eyes fell on the drinks in her hands. Their mission to canoodle with the girl was abandoned as they each took a cocktail and sank into their chairs.
Maggie sat between the two, crossing her long legs, fingers idly playing with the string of pearls draped around her neck.
“So, boys, what can I do to make this night a magical one?” She gave them both a dazzling smile, her eyes
* * *
An hour later, waitresses struggled to clear the dozens of empty glasses from the brothers’ table, trying to work around the jeering, whistling crowd that had surrounded the three of them.
Maggie was draped across the lap of one brother, her head back and elbows propped on the table. A cocktail was balanced on her chest, just below her breast bone where her golden dress dipped tantalizingly low. Another drink was pressed between her smooth thighs, the fringe of her dress pulled up and out of the way. The other brother knelt there, a roguish glint in his eye.
Maggie giggled, trying her best to stay still. “Gentlemen,” she announced. “Start your engines.”
The brothers placed their straws between their lips, swaying and smiling.
Maggie looked at each pair of glassy eyes in turn.
“Ready,” she announced. “Set.”
A hush fell over the charged, rapt crowd.
Maggie felt her body heating from the attention, the man beneath her, the other kneeling at her feet. She had to admit, when the younger brother said he wanted to drink from her, she went a little weak at the knees. What did those expensive private tutors teach these boys?
“Go!” she shouted.
The brothers wrapped themselves around her top and bottom, their straws sinking into their respective glasses as the crush of patrons surrounding them cheered.
Maggie squealed as she felt the cool weight of the glasses jostle against her skin.
Laughter rumbled through the chest of the older brother she stretched across. The younger brother slid his hands up her calves, bringing them to rest just behind her knees.
Amidst the excitement, a small, sweet voice chimed like a bell behind her. “Miss Maggie?”
Maggie stretched her neck to see one of her waitresses.
“There’s a man here for you upstairs,” the girl relayed, her smile faltering. Behind a hand, the girl mouthed, “An agent.”
Maggie feigned astonishment. “A man?” she gasped, sending pointed, exaggerated looks to the bowed heads at her breast and thighs. “I am one lucky gal!”
The first slurp of straw on empty glass gurgled between her legs, and the younger brother jumped to his feet, a little unsteady, his hands in the air as if he'd just won a boxing match.
The glass on Maggie’s chest jostled as it emptied a moment later, and the older brother rocked backward in his chair, a lazy smile on his face.
“We have a winner, folks,” Maggie proclaimed, jumping to lift the victor’s hand before the roaring crowd. “Both brothers did a fantastic job,” she announced. “We need a way to reward them both.” She grinned as she caught the eyes of a couple of fan dancers. Cocking her head to bring them over, she turned and gently pushed both men into chairs. “How about a special one-on-one dance for the boys?”
Amid uproarious applause, Maggie left the men wavering in their chairs, disheveled yet happy, as a couple of dancers bounced over to them. She glided away through the crowd, a true Queen over her wild kingdom.
Patting the bar in front of Jerry as she passed on her way to the club’s simple, dark staircase, she told him, “Gotta go upstairs, honey. Be back in two shakes.”
The bartender leveled a look at her before one blonde eyebrow raised in question.
“Just gotta do some business,” she called over her shoulder, sashaying up the dim steps.
As she climbed, the jazz from the six-man band below faded, swallowed by the swelling drums and trumpets of the big band upstairs. The stairs rose to a small landing where her bouncer sat on a plush stool.
“How’s it going, Angus?” Maggie asked.
The man was a pit bull, as loyal and kind as he was intimidating.
“It’s goin', Miss Maggie,” Angus answered with a jovial, toothy smile, tipping his hat to her as he stood and opened the door.
She stepped out into an empty hallway from the nondescript, green door that could just have easily been the broom closet, tucked away in the dim recesses behind the stage.
The big band number in the ballroom beyond slid to her across the art deco tile.
Maggie fingered her hair and straightened her dress, tugging the plunging neckline down further as she followed the music around the corner and into a well-to-do crowd milling about and chatting.
She held her head high as she navigated the affluent and aloof, the philanthropic philanderers. Only that particular brand of hypocrite would spend most of a show huddled, gossiping, in a corner.
She side-stepped a clucking group of older women as one of them dragged her eyes down Maggie’s low-cut slip of a dress. Those beady orbs were full of disdain, but Maggie only smiled sweetly as she strutted past and entered the grand, vaulted ballroom.
Lit up like Times Square, with a big band blowing horns and beating on drums, the upstairs nightclub was a different world. Men and women danced and laughed without a care. Up here, code words and secret knocks weren’t required. Nobody in the upstairs ballroom sold their soul for a drink.
Maggie breathed deeply and shook the bitterness from her mind as she forced a fun-loving, easy-going smile. She caught heads turning as she strolled by and reminded herself that she liked it, that she'd always dreamed of this attention. When she was just a skinny young thing sitting on corral fences, she'd dreamed of a future like this: the elegance, the class, the light, and the music. She met athletes, movie stars, politicians, and princes. This life is what she wanted, she reminded herself.
Maggie stalked around a corner and very nearly tripped as she caught sight of the man waiting for her.
He didn’t look like any prohibition agent she’d ever seen. He was too young, too fit, too handsome. He was sitting at a table by himself, a glass of water sweating in a large hand in front of him. He watched the band play, and the couples dance. His hair was dark, and he was too damned tan to be a prohibition agent.
Steady golden-brown eyes drifted to Maggie as she approached his table, a grin slowly spreading across that chiseled jaw.
Looking at that young face, that little boy smile, Maggie almost felt bad for what was about to happen.
Chapter 2
Maggie smirked and let her gaze travel from his thick, dark brown hair, down to his arms where his shirt stretched across large biceps. She mentally slapped herself and dragged her eyes back to his as she stopped at the edge of his table, the two of them silently staring the other down.
He looked like a colt in a suit, but those eyes and that steely gaze told her to be careful, to not judge so quickly.
“I hate to embarrass you, Agent,” she purred. “But this is the smallest raid I’ve ever seen.”
That grin and unyielding gaze turned playful, and she felt an unhelpful spasm in her chest.
“You must be Miss Maggie Worth.” Bright eyes lowered, looking her up and down before settling back on her own. Thick fingers tapped on the glass he held as he smiled, mischief sparking in those eyes. “Wow. I’ve heard so much about you. Queen of the Night, they call you.” He pushed a chair back from the table with one foot, those eyes never leaving her own. “Will you take a seat?”
Maggie was a cat playing with her food. Her feline smile was predatory as she looked at the offered chair. “No, thank you, Agent…”
“Marino. Frank Marino.” That boyish smirk remained, despite the snub. He stuck out a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Worth.”
It took all her self-control to remain stock-still, to let that hand hang there, to let his pride rend before her eyes. She looked away, feigning interest in the band, the dancers, anything but his hand slowly dropping, his smile faltering ever so slightly.
Maggie fingered her pearls as she drawled, “What brings you to my little corner of the world, Agent? Business or pleasure?”
Marino’s smile returned, a dangerous smirk as he watched her every move. “I’m just enjoying the show, Miss Worth.”
His eyes bored into her own, and Maggie crushed the lingering guilt sitting heavy in her chest as she skirted around the offered chair and sat down. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and smiled at Agent Marino.
