This is a second draft of the book I'm currently working on, Some Like It Hot. 

Updates sporadically. 

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June 26th, 1925

    It's a warm night, and it irritates him. He's sweating under his collar and he reaches to loosen his tie just a little bit. He's in such a bad mood that everything irritates him.
    He's chosen the city as his new home, and there is an a frightening lack of action. Even his new work colleges, he would never go so far as to call them friends, had teased him for not going out.
    They had talked extensively about Maggie's, this nightclub, and he had been so intrigued that he found himself sitting in a booth, alone.
    There was nothing so special about Maggie's, in fact it was rather disgusting. He could have sworn, in the low light, he saw a cockroach scuttle across the rough wooden floors. 
    Of course, it made no difference to them, the negreos who danced with wild abandon. He had never so much as fancied himself as a dancer, and in this day and age, that in itself was a novel idea. His left hand was on the glass that he had ordered twenty minutes ago, bootleg gin that by now had gone warm and lacklustre.
    He watched the floor, the band playing rather loudly. He could see the women smiling, laughing, happy. 
    He's almost insulted that they'd have the idea to be so happy.
    As predicted, he was the only white man that he could see in the club. The booths had curtains attached, the only point of elegance in a hellhole like this, and young black women in black dresses with white beads flitted around the room, from booths to booth, carrying trays of drinks and cigarettes. He hadn't been a smoker until he had come to New York City, here everyone smoked, and it was a vice he easily fell into.
    His fingers itched for it now.
    On top of being irritated, on top of being annoyed, he was itching for something. Wanting something he couldn't exactly have.  He had left London for a reason, and while London hadn't been his home, he was going to do his best to make America his new home.  
    He spots her, dressed in black, an unforgiving shade on a skin nearly the same shade. She's laughing with another man and he raises his chin slightly, watching her. He knows he has her when her dark eyes land on him from across the club. She has a tray of cigarettes around her neck, and he watches the man discreetly slip her some cash and she hands him a package of cigarettes.
    He likes this part. This part was as close to a dance that he'd get. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his blood.
    Every part of her is measured to make herself more appealing, from the subtle smile to her lips to the way her hips sway when she walks. She makes handling the tray of cigarettes look so easy, so effortless.
    He hates that he finds it attractive. All of her is by design, made to get men like him.    
    And he's angry that he falls for it. 
    "How can I help you?" Her voice, near his ear, is low and breathy. he raises an eyebrow.
    "A pack of lucky strikes?" he asks. She smiles as if she's indulging him.
    "A dollar fifty," she says and he pulls out the cash. She picks up the box, removing one cigarette and hands it to him. She lights it for him and he takes a puff. She's so close that he can see the rise and fall of her chest, the neckline of her dress daringly low. She's dressed identically maybe twelve other girls who mill around Maggie's, their black dresses making it impossible  to track their movements in the shadows of the club.
    But he's taken a liking to her, although he'd never admit it. 
    "Need a refill, doll?" Up close, he can see the darkness that outlines her eyes, the red that touches her cheeks and her lips. He automatically raises his glass, still half full, to his lips and drains the glass. He hands her another couple of bills.
    "Make it two," he says. He's accustomed to hearing this voice slip from him, so clean, so American. He uses it so much that hearing his own voice is jarring to him.
    "I'm not allowed to drink on the job, love," she says. She's playing coy, and she's good at it. He shoots her a bashful smile and it becomes a game, who'll win?
    "I won't tell if you won't." He said. She raises an eyebrow and her smile is warm and inviting.
    He's won. It's almost too easy, but he's won.
    "Give me ten minutes."

    Those minutes pass, and she returns, without the tray and with two half full liquids of amber coloured liquid.
    He knew what she was. 
    She knew what she was.
    There had been nothing subtle about their first exchange.
    She delicately seats herself next to him, and he moves an arm around her waist. He's done this before. Why is he so nervous?
    "I'm Dora," her voice is a purr near his ear and she playfully raises her glass to her lips. He introduces himself, using his first and middle names as he had become accustomed to. 
    He raises her hand to his lips, giving her a sweet little kiss.
    He swears he can see her swoon. 
    "Well, Dora," he says, "why don't you close that curtain." It's not a demand, but it's not a suggestion. They both know what's going to happen. 
    Well, she thinks she knows what's about to happen. She thinks she's in control of this situation, as she must have done one thousand times before. There's a youthful glint in her dark eye and he hasn't realized how young she must be. She seems so much more...mature.
    She does as she's told, shutting the dark red velvet curtains. Immedately, the noise from the band is cut in half and the dancing candle on the table is their only source of light.
    "That's better," Dora says, "More private."
    "Of course," he says. They're so close together that his neck is an uncomfortable angle to look at her.
    He kisses her and she reacts instantly. 
    He pulls her closer, and he's won.

 For five years, since the 18th amendment passed, the Zodiac Club had been the best place to be. Blessed with high ceilings, a large shiny dance floor and a band that knew all the latest songs, if a person wanted to be anyone in New York City, they would have to go to the Zodiac. 
    Even more, if someone wanted to go to the Zodiac, a person had simply be the best dancer. Every couple on the dance floor cleanly and flawlessly did the steps perfectly in time to the music. 
    If someone couldn't keep up, they were out. 
    Louise Lloyd still got shivers every time she heard the band strike up. This was where she had learned. Even four years after her first visit, she felt as if the Zodiac had been a part of her. Even now, when she was sitting at the bar, a glass of bathtub gin in front of her, she longed to be out on the dance floor. She had dedicated so much time when she wasn't working to meticulously practicing steps with the other girls in her home. Louise was working, watching the floor intently. She tried not to get caught up in the whirlwind of couples on the floor. 
    There would be time for that later.  
    "Everything copacetic, babydoll?" The bartender, an impossibly handsome man by the name of Frederick Davis, asked. He and Louise were actually old friends, ever since the first time she had stepped into the Zodiac, and she had the singular honour of calling him Freddy. 
    "All right, Freddy," Louise said. Her eyes didn't leave the dance floor as she responded. Freddy was known to be a bit of a flirt, well deserved with his dark hair, always neatly parted, his light blue eyes, that made a girl feel like they were the only two people in the room, and his boyish, bashful smile that was easy to coax out.
    "You're all balled up," Freddy said seriously.
    "You're all wet." Louise removed her eyes from the dance floor to look at him. He was grinning. She drained her glass and put it back down.
    "Busy tonight?" Freddy asked, leaning on the bar.
    "And how," Louise said. Her gaze returned to the floor. She had had a long day of working at the bakery, then doing the same number ninety times in her chorus. She wasn't working, she just didn't want to move. Every muscle in her body ached. It was a sensation she had gotten used to, and she couldn't imagine removing herself from her seat at the bar.
    Freddy refilled her glass, but she knew she wasn't going to touch it. At twenty one and a half, Louise wasn't actually old enough to remember what actual alcohol tasted like, but she liked the taste of bathtub gin.
    When it didn't make her mouth go numb.
    Louise was lucky indeed that the owner of the Zodiac, a man she had only met once or twice, when she was caught breaking the rules, didn't care what race entered his club. 
    As long as he was getting paid, he didn't care.
    Freddy leaned on the bar. 
    "Don't you have a job to do?" Louise asked.
    "I always like it better when I'm talking to you," Freddy said, leaving over the bar to very gently place a kiss on her cheek. Despite herself, she smiled. Frederick Davis was many things, a flirt and a cad, but no one could say he wasn't sincere.         
    Louise directed her attention back to the the dance floor. If she weren't so tired, she'd be out there, too. Against everything, she felt a flare of jealousy.
    The band changed songs and she lifted her glass to her lips. She hadn't even wanted to go to the Zodiac that night, it was rare she went out alone. 
    "You're the bees knees, Frederick Davis," Louise said. He was, truly, her closest friend. "Now why don't you go and," Louise looked down the bar, "go flirt with that pretty blonde over there and let me go back to..."
    "Your contemplation of of the human existence?" Freddy asked. 
    "Yes," Louise said, "and go." Freddy dutifully did what he was told and Louise turned her head so she could watch the moment the blonde melted in his hands. 
    She resumed her watching, her gaze settling just past the dance floor. The Zodiac didn't allow for shadows, it was brightly lit and she could see someone leaning against the wall.
    She lifted the glass to her lips. She knew he had been watching her all night. He was the third thing she noticed after she took her place at the bar. (The first had been that it was a warm night, but the Zodiac was cold, the second was that Freddy had done something different with his hair.) She tilted her head, her eyebrows raised.
    There was no way Louise Lloyd made the first move. 
     He approached her, slinking across the floor with a grace that couldn't be taught. He was white, and Louise knew there was little good that could come from a white boy approaching her.
    She sipped from her glass.
    "I'm surprised you're not out there." He sat on the stool next to her, effectively sweeping her feet off.  Louise straighten up and removed her hair from where it stuck in her dark red lipstick. 
    "I've had a long day," Louise said. Freddy was still wrapped around the finger of the pretty blonde, but Louise could handle herself. 
    "Why don't you let me help you relax." he said. Louise settled into a smile like a dagger.
    "That's very kind of you, but I'm not too sure my husband would approve." Louise said, then slid an unsubtle look at Freddy. She did this often, but the bartender was never aware of it.
    "He looks busy." The man in front of her was handsome, but on the older side of twenty five. Twenty-seven, Louise guessed. She hadn't seen him at the Zodiac before, but she guessed he was the type to hang around clubs, see what he could get. 
    "It's his job," Louise said.
    "And he doesn't mind his old lady sitting right there, watching him?" the man asked. 
    "I think he prefers it." She drained her glass and set it back on the counter, the quiet thud a siren call to Freddy to make his way back to her. He did so and refilled her glass. 
    "Thank you, my darling," Louise said to Freddy, but it was all for the show for the man sitting next to her. Freddy leaned over to gently kiss her cheek again and she grinned.
    None the wiser, Freddy turn to the man beside her to take his order.

    She didn't hate her day job. On an ordinary day, she rather liked it, but on a day after she'd been drinking rather copiously and her stomach was a precarious sea and she thought she would vomit any moment, she did not like it that much.
    The bakery was busy. It seemed always be busy, but Louise had liked it like that. She had spent the majority of her childhood in this bakery. Maggie's Bakery had been standing for as long as Louise could remember, it was a fix in the childhood of her and her younger sisters.
    And Louise loved it, when she wasn't hungover.
    The night before had consisted of drinks with the other women she lived with, and while Louise prided herself on being able to hold her liquor, she was no match for the girls she lived with.
    It was truly irresponsible.
    Her boss, sweet kind Margaret Lister, the eponymous Maggie, who was working hard well into her late eighties, gave her a sympathetic look.
    "You should go home and rest, Miss Lou." Maggie said. Louise forced a smile on her face. She knew she looked like hell and Maggie wasn't dim.
    "I only wish I could, Mrs. Lister." Louise reached to adjust the strings of her white apron and dusted off the stray flour. "No rest for the wicked."
    "And you, Miss Louise," Maggie said. She felt a kinship to the older woman. Maggie had spent many years babysitting Louise and her younger sisters Minnie and Josie. This had been before Minnie got married, and Louise had craved adventure elsewhere. 
    Only the youngest of the Lloyd sisters, Josephine, had remained at home, for better or for worse.
    Louise had taken this job just after she had turned eighteen, just before she had met Frederick. She had taken it because she still wanted to be close to her youngest sister, even risking the chance her father or her Aunt could walk into the bakery at any moment.
    "Of course, Mrs. Lister," Louise said. She stepped from the kitchen, never wanting to get in the cooks way. She grabbed a notepad and pasted a smile on her face.
    She could deal with customers. Most of these people she had known since she was a baby. Maggie's was placed in the centre of Harlem, a block and a half from were Louise had grown up. 
    Louise didn't notice the woman enter. She was leaning over a table with a smile and why would she notice a customer enter a place where people bought stuff? She didn't notice as the woman took a seat at the only empty table, in the corner by the window, where the mid-afternoon sun was shining through. The sun made her headache worse and she didn't want to go near the table.
    But she did, with a smile.
    "Hello," she said warmly, "welcome to Maggie's."
    "Are you Louise Lloyd?" The question was quiet and quick. 
    "I am," Louise said. The stranger looked at her. She was a woman, older than Louise, thirty four or thirty five. 
    "I was told you could help me." The woman continued. Louise narrowed her eyes. She was much too hungover for this.
    She wiped her hands on her apron and sat down across from the woman.
    "My name is Dottie Hughes," she said. She spoke in low tones even though there was a din that accompanied Maggie's that made it the perfect place to have private conversations. "My, uh, my little sister, Dora Hughes has been gone for three days." The older woman reached into her purse and pulled out a photo of a smiling sixteen year old girl. She placed it on the table so Louise could see.
    "Has she done anything like this before?" Louise asked. She stared at the photo. The girl in it, Dora Hughes, was no older than seventeen, around the age of her youngest sister. 
    "Never," Dottie said, "she worked below twice a week, but other than that she stayed at home. She lived with me and my husband. He also works below." Louise raised an eyebrow. It was common knowledge that below the bakery where Louise had spent so much of her young life lurked a nightclub run by Maggie's grandson, Frank Lister.
    Louise nodded. She still was staring at the photo.
    "I thought she'd come back. But she hasn't. She's never left like this, something is wrong." Dottie Hughes was convinced. Louise was sure that Dora was taken with some boy, as the girls she found usually were.
    "Fine," Louise said, "my fee is fifteen dollars upfront, and fifteen when I find her." The woman nodded. That price was a little high, but it was Louise's third job, and as she was her own boss, she could set her own prices. 
    Dottie reached into her purse, pulling out a couple of bills. Louise took them, and her eye caught the photo again. Dora was smiling just like her sister did and she felt her heart constrict.
    She sighed and handed the bills back over, "I have two younger sisters. And if anything happened to either of them..." She didn't have to explain. Dottie took the bills back and nodded. The status of them being older sisters bonded them for a moment. It went without saying that Louise would move heaven and earth to protect her sisters. She tore a page from her notepad, and wrote her address, a few blocks from Maggie's, on the precipice of Harlem and a better part of the city. 
    "You can contact me here, or here where I work," Louise said, "I'll find her, Mrs. Hughes. I always do." Dottie Hughes nodded, and used a handkerchief to dap at the tears that had formed in her eyes. 
    "Thank you, Miss Lloyd," Dottie Hughes said.
    Louise nodded and rose from the table, taking the photo and slipping it inside her apron pocket. 
    This would require a lot more investigation.

     Louise was usually the last to return to the boarding home she rented a room in. The seven other girls (aged twenty one to twenty four, two other black girls, and four white) had normal day jobs, and only one at that. Louise would return from chorus rehearsal, and rush up to her room to change from her rehearsal clothes to something suitable for dinner.
    Then she would take her seat at the table.
    "You were almost late." Rosemary Davis, twenty three and the older twin to Frederick Davis, teased. Rosemary was Louise's closest friend in Miss Rose's home, and the girl she sat next to at the table.
    "But I wasn't," Louise said. Miss Rose hated two things. Boys and being late. All the girls were careful to not cross her rules.
    Dinner at Miss Rose's home, affectionately called Miss Rose's Home for Wayward Girls by its seven young occupants and everyone who knew of the homes repuation, was a loud and messy affair. It was made worse with the fact that three of it's seven occupants (Louise, Rosemary and Grace Simon) were also fluent in French.
    It was a mess of passing plates to and fro, and overlapping conversation.
    "Louise, can I borrow that green dress?" Catherine Gordon asked. Louise paused, her fork halfway to her mouth.
    "I think I tore it," Louise said, "I can offer the pink."
    "I'll come over after dinner and try it on." Catherine said. Louise, her mouth full, nodded. Evelyn "Evie" Elsner always ate the least. Louise, shamelessly, always at the most.
     When dinner was over, and before Rosemary and Evie snuck into her room to begin changing for a night out, she pulled Dora Hughes' photograph from her apron pocket and set it on her desk. 
    "Where did you go," she asked the photograph. 
    She would have to find out.