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Whiskey Lips and Loaded Lies
RWDouble Drabble 2.0.145: Blackmail
Every Wednesday, I sang torch songs in the backroom of The Marlowe Club, and every Wednesday, he waited in the booth near the curtain — suit pressed, tie loose, cigarette always half-finished.
Our arrangement was unspoken. I’d slip upstairs after my last set, and he’d follow. Just kisses that tasted like bourbon and trouble. He liked the garters. I liked the danger.
Then came the letter.
It was tucked into my vanity drawer, written in a woman’s hand, bold and cruel: He’s not yours. He never was. But if you want him to live, stay away from the club.
I showed it to him that night.
“Blackmail? You’re not the only one with enemies, doll.”
“Someone wants you dead.”
He smiled, dark and slow. “They already tried. Years ago.”
I slipped the revolver from my stocking and placed it on the table between us.
“Then we hit first.”
He laughed, and pulled an envelope from his jacket. Inside were photos: a senator, a safe, a secret too dirty.
“They think they’re playing me,” he said. “But I’ve been playing since Prohibition started.”
