Slamming into the ground, Thomas’s head lolled to one side. His breathing came in short gasps. Tommy. Casey. Their names formed on Thomas’s lips.
A bright white glow appeared and grew in intensity. He saw a hand being extended toward him.
A woman’s hand.
Then, everything went black.
January 3, 1930 ~ 7:00 p.m.
Chicago, Illinois near McKinley Park
The hairs on Nichole’s arm rose as she stared into the dark alley. The part of her job she hated the most was getting to and from work. Unfortunately, the pitch-black path led to the club’s only entrance. It was used by employees, customers, and thugs alike.
Rubbing her gloved hands up and down her arms in a fruitless attempt to warm up from the biting cold of winter, she hurried forward. The sooner she got inside, the better. January in Chicago was cruel, and the wind nipped at her exposed skin. She needed a new coat. The one she had on was so well worn it was threadbare in places, making frostbite a real possibility as she walked her five-block commute. But money was tight, and Frankie had needed a new coat before she did. The boy was growing like a weed, and the one from the year prior barely fit. She used her savings from the previous two months to buy him a fine, wool jacket.
Thinking of her son brought a smile to her face. He was only five, but such a little gentleman. She loved him more than anything and would stop at nothing to ensure he was safe, loved, and cared for. Mabel, their landlady and downstairs neighbor, was an elderly woman who enjoyed babysitting Frankie for company. She watched him whenever Nichole worked, which was often. Not that she was complaining; she was grateful to have a job. After the stock market crashed in the fall of 1929, business was dropping. The constant worry Nichole felt as a mother was compounded by a new fear: what if she lost her job?
Lost in thoughts of Frankie and her troubles, she walked quickly through the darkness, her eyes trained on the white door in the distance. There were no lights to greet employees or patrons, and had the door been any other color, Nichole doubted she would see it. Then there were the smells, foul and sour, a mix of old garbage and body odor. The path was by far the least pleasant in all of western Chicago, and yet it was well traveled. Everyone loved the speakeasy.
A beefy arm wrapped around her, and a gloved hand firmly covered her mouth. Nichole’s scream of surprise drowned in the leather. A deep, husky voice whispered, “Not a sound, see? We’ll do this nice and easy, won’t we, doll?”
“I ain’t your doll!” she tried to shout, but all that came out were a few garbled squeaks. The brute dragged her backward down the alley, and as she clawed at his hand and arm, it took the rest of her strength to maintain her balance.
Her mind whirled with fear and her eyes darted in the blackness, looking for escape or at least an ally. Who could help her? No one would find her there. God, who would care for Frankie? She wasn’t a crier, but hot tears slid down her face. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with Thee. Although not particularly religious, Nichole was raised Roman Catholic. If anyone would come to her rescue, it would be the Virgin Mother.
“What’s a pretty dame like you doing in a place like this?” The man’s voice was thick and slurred. Old Ed, the Green Door’s bartender, had probably served the thug all afternoon. His other hand slid up and under her modest dress. He’d removed his glove, and his rough, icy cold palm sent a shiver through her body. Repulsed, she renewed her efforts to free herself. He ignored her and continued. “Unless you’re one of them dames that work here?” His chuckle was low and evil while he placed a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek. “You wouldn’t mind giving me a taste of the goods for free, would ya? Consider it a sample.”
His hand slid higher, and she reacted, stomping her sturdy heel on his left instep. He yelped in pain and released her. Turning, she kneed him in the groin before scrambling to get away. She didn’t get far before he caught a fistful of her long blonde hair and yanked. Pain seared her scalp, and she cried out. He quickly covered her mouth, firmer than before. His large hand pressed against her nose, too. She fought his thick fingers to drag in air, feeling weak and lightheaded.
“You like it rough, do ya?” His quiet laugh sounded menacing. “My kind of gal.”
His free hand grabbed the silver necklace hanging around her neck and pulled. She waited for the chain to bite into her skin, but it never came. The raspy voice of an old woman whispered “be brave” from the shadows, but when Nichole turned her gaze toward the source, no one was there.
Closing her eyes, she resigned herself to fate. No one was going to save her, especially not an old woman who would be no match for Nichole’s assailant. When she had turned to assault him, she’d assessed his size. Surprise had been her only element of defense. He was a bulk of a man and recovered lightning fast from the attack. Plus, he would be twice as cautious going forward. All she could do was pray he left her alive afterward. She’d heard horror stories from the other girls of these things happening to dancers; she didn’t think it would ever happen to her.
She wanted to plead with him, tell him she had a child and appeal to his humanity, but with her mouth covered, she couldn’t form the words. Stumbling on a rock, her knee buckled. He didn’t even slow his pace, just gripped under her arms and dragged her toward the street.
“What’s going on here?”
The man dragging her turned sharply, giving her a view of the alley entrance. A tall, male figure stood there. Silhouetted by the street lamp, she couldn’t make out his features. He wore a long overcoat and a fedora. A gentleman, if his fashion sense said anything.
The brute ignored the newcomer, who called out, “What’s the idea?”
“I had a dispute with my gal, see? We’re heading home to work it out.” Her assailant patted her head like one would a dog. “Domestic business. None of your concern.”
While he spoke, Nichole tried to silently communicate her fear. She widened her eyes as much as she could and tried to shake her head side to side, although being constrained didn’t allow for much movement.
“I think the lady begs to differ.” With confidence, her rescuer stepped forward into the shadows.
When Nichole caught his face, she gasped. It was Tommy Two Guns, the Middleweight boxing champion. She’d taken Frankie to a fight once. The seats had been far from the ring; it was all she could afford, but he’d loved every second of it. He thought Tommy was a hero, and it looked like he was about to become hers.
“What do you know, pal?” growled the man from behind her. Either he didn’t recognize Tommy or was too stupid to care about going up against a professional boxer.
That was all it took. One second, Nichole was caught in the brute’s smelly hold, the next, the oaf was down, blood gushing from his broken nose. Her heart raced, and it took everything in her to hold her ground and not flee. Her fingers lighted gently on her bruised skin while she studied the bloodied man with dismay.
“Is he alive?” Nichole asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Tommy kicked the man in disgust before dragging him to the side and throwing him on a pile of refuse as if the large thug weighed next to nothing. Tommy turned back to Nichole, brushing off his hands. The dim lighting reflected the burning anger in his eyes, which quickly melted to concern. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ll survive.” She smiled wanly. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
He tipped his hat and offered his arm. “Let me walk you home, Miss—?”
“Nichole,” she answered, caught in his charming smile. He was an average looking man, and his face was mottled with bruises from his profession.
“Nichole,” he repeated with a smile, and it lit his face. White teeth against dusky skin, he was handsome, just not conventionally so. Realizing she was staring, and he was politely waiting, she shook her head.
“I can’t, I mean…” She jerked her thumb behind her. “I’ve got to go to work.”
“You work here? It’s not the place for a lady.” He frowned.
&
nbsp; A lady she wasn’t, but she appreciated his assessment. “I’m a dancer, and the bills don’t pay themselves.” She wondered if he thought less of her.
“What do you make in a night?”
She was shocked by his forthright question and spluttered to answer him.
“That’s all right. Don’t answer that.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a bill. “Will that cover it?”
She stared at the twenty in her hand. Even on her best night, she never made that much. Pushing the money back at him, she said, “I can’t accept this.”
“You can and will.” He crossed his arms, refusing to take it back. “I’m not letting you go back in tonight, see? Miss Nichole, I have a goal to escort you safely home, and you don’t know me, but I always reach my goals.”
“Oh, but I do know you!” Nichole replied without thinking and silently cursed as her cheeks grew hot. “I mean, you’re Tommy Two Guns.”
His right eyebrow, the one with a thin, horizontal scar, rose in doubt. “You’re a boxing fan?”
“Not me,” she said. “My son, Frankie. He’s your biggest fan.” She wondered why she was being so open with him. Most men turned from interest to disgust when they realized she was a mother.
To Tommy’s credit, he didn’t even look down and check her left hand to see if she was married. Instead, he gave her another dazzling smile. “Your son has good taste.”
Without stepping closer, he offered his elbow. “Let’s try this again. May I walk you home, Miss Nichole?”
“Yes, thank you.” She stepped forward and slid her arm through his. The wool of his coat felt plush and fine even through her gloved hand. His arm was strong.
“On second thought…” His voice was soft as he reached up and touched the back of her head, causing her to wince in pain. His gray glove came away darkened with blood. “I’m not sure you want to return to your son in your current state.”
“Oh,” she said with dismay.
“I’ve got three options for you. The gym where I practice isn’t far from here. There are probably still a few men working out.”
The thought of entering a building full of boxers scared her slightly.
“There’s the hospital.”
Her eyes widened. That would set her back months in wages.
“Or my place. I have plenty of bandages.” He pointed to his face. “And lots of practice cleaning wounds.”
The only real choice was his place, but she didn’t want to sound forward. What would he think? A woman he only met a moment before coming back to his residence unescorted. It was quite scandalous.
Bending down, he met her green eyes with his warm, brown ones. “I swear I’ll be a perfect gentleman. You’re safe with me.”
“Your place then.” They started walking, and she couldn’t help but add softly, “I can’t afford a hospital.”
Patting her hand with his free one, he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be right as rain soon.”
He hailed a cab and guided her into the back seat. Rather than sit with her, he slid into the front next to the driver, giving an address which was farther than walking distance away. It was kind of him to give her space. He seemed to realize she was shaken from the encounter and not quite trusting of the opposite sex. And yet, she did feel she could trust him. He came to her aid when he had no reason to get involved. He was a good man.
She settled into the seat and let the car’s warm air relax her.
January 3, 1930 ~ 9:00 p.m.
Southside of Chicago, Illinois
“Wake up,” Tommy’s soft voice coaxed Nichole from a dreamless sleep. It wasn’t like her to doze like that, especially in a taxi cab with two virtual strangers. The adrenaline fleeing her system must have impacted her more than she thought.
Blinking, she looked around. The street and buildings were unfamiliar, but that didn’t surprise her. Without much excess money, she didn’t own a car. It was a luxury to take a cab, and she mainly walked everywhere. A blast of cold air hit her when Tommy opened the door. She placed her hand in the one he offered and rose from the cab.
The two-story brick building was long with rows of windows. Briefly, Nichole wondered how many people lived there. He leapt up the three steps that led inside and held the door for her. The entrance was warm and clean. Jazz music played softly from down the hall, and to the left, stairs led up to the second floor.
“This way,” he said, and she followed him past several doors, surprised when he opened the farthest door on the right to a staircase. “I’m on the lower level.”
The bottom floor was dimly lit and smelled of cooking grease and cigarette smoke. Near the middle of the hall, Tommy stopped and unlocked a door. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”
Nichole stepped past him into the room. Because they were on the lower level, the windows were small and sparse. The few that existed lined the top quarter of the wall. The apartment itself was scarcely furnished, but it was clean. She wouldn’t admit it to him, but it was nicer than where she lived. Mabel Brown was a sweet Polish woman, but elderly with no close kin. The house had fallen to disrepair, and neither woman was skilled enough to fix it. They got by as best they could, covering bare spots with throws and cracks with Frankie’s drawings. The leaky faucet was another story, but the drips were silenced by a strategically placed washcloth in the basin.
“It’s very nice,” she said politely, hugging her arms around her body and standing just inside the doorway.
He closed the door. “May I take your coat?”
“Oh, yes.” How silly you’re being, she scolded herself. She entertained men on a daily basis. Not in the base meaning of the word, but as a dancer, a companion. Sure, the boys occasionally stole a kiss or two, but someone was always there to ensure it went no further than that. She wasn’t that kind of girl, and once she was a mother, she was even more cautious of the company she kept. There’d been no other man since Frank.
Removing her gloves, she tucked them in the pockets of her coat and unbuttoned it. If Tommy thought she was impoverished in her threadbare coverings, he had the decency not to comment. He took her things, motioning toward the living room. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
The room held a golden velvet couch and a curved chair in brown tweed. A coffee table and radio completed the furnishings. On the radio sat a framed photograph. Curious, she crossed the room and picked it up. The couple in the picture was handsome, but not smiling.
“Antonio and Maria.” Tommy nodded toward the silver frame in her hand. “My parents.”
“They’re very handsome.” She set the picture down carefully and smoothed her skirt, unsure of what to do next.
He was holding a washcloth in one hand and a large bowl in the other. “If you sit in the chair, I’ll clean your wound and take a look at it.”
“All right.” She perched on the edge of the chair, back straight, waiting for the sting when the cloth met her sore scalp. He was very gentle, dabbing carefully at the injury. Several times he rinsed the washcloth and repeated the task.
While he worked, he asked her about her favorite musicians. They both loved Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Mamie Smith. “Do you want to listen to some music? It might take your mind off the pain.”
“That would be nice,” she said, adding, “But it’s not painful. You’re very gentle.”
He made a face while he fiddled with the large dials on the radio. “For a boxer.”
“For a human being.” She corrected. “For a man who didn’t have to step in and save a stranger, but who did.” When he looked at her, slowly blinking and not speaking, she added, “Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome.” They stared at each other for a moment before he cleared his throat and hurried to his spot behind her chair. “I’m almost done cleaning the wound. You’ll have a nice scab, and you’ll need to be careful when brushing your hair. It’s not deep enough to stitch.”
“Thank goodness for that!” Ever since she was a chi
ld, she hated needles. One time, while running through a field, she fell and tore her leg on a barbed wire fence. The cut had required ten stiches, and her mama, who was never complimentary, had told Nichole how brave she was.
“All done.” Tommy stepped around and looked at her. “It’s clean, but I’d like to apply some ointment. I have a tube I use on my facial cuts.” He pointed to a fresh injury close to his nose. It was scabbed over, but looked like it had been painful. “Helps them heal faster and not scar.”
“If you think it will help.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He left with the bowl and washcloth, returning with a small tube. “It might feel a little strange, but it shouldn’t hurt.”
She barely felt as he applied the medicine.
“There. Give it a few days and it will be all healed.”
“I truly appreciate your kindness.” She took his hand, and he stilled. “I can never repay you for what you’ve done.”
“I don’t want repayment,” he said, sounding almost angry. “A nice lady like you should never have been put in that situation. I’m sorry it happened to you.”
“Nonsense. Nothing happened. Thanks to you.”
“Would you like something to drink?” The praise clearly made him uncomfortable.
She wished he would sit and stop waiting on her. He’d done too much already.
“Coca-Cola, water, or ginger ale?” He shrugged apologetically. “That’s about all I have at the moment.”
“Some water would be nice. Then, will you join me?” she asked and was rewarded when his cheeks turned slightly red.
“I’ll be right back.”
He brought her ice water in a tall glass and bottle of Coca-Cola for himself. While he was gone, she moved to the sofa. She watched with amusement as his eyes darted between the other end of the couch and the chair, unsure of which to pick. To help, she patted the cushion next to her. “Tell me about yourself, Tommy Mazza.”
7: The Seven Deadly Sins Page 11