on the run from a dreadfully cruel gentleman caller, Yonkers born, midlevel typist, interested in jazz but doesn’t know much yet. Likes the Greenwich speakeasies that look like tearooms. Terribly droll those, likes to chew the fat about the latest plays over Darjeeling spiked with bootleg rum. Likes cats. That sort.
“’Scuse me for saying so, but you’re looking real poorly, Miss James.” Max glances behind himself.
“Well, I’m in Oregon, you see.”
He exposes the glint of a flask in his pocket.
“Oh God,” I gasp. The pain flares up again, rich and real. “Name your price.”
“Take it easy,” he says quietly. “Settle down and have a snort on the house.”
Angels sing faint arias. I don’t dawdle over finding out what it is before I guzzle the stuff. Good corn liquor, not the best but not cheap hooch either, small-batch operation. Pure Midwestern moonshine. The drink cuts a rug through my veins.
“Beg pardon, but this louse hurt you real bad, didn’t he, Miss James?” Max’s genuine frown sticks me right in the chest.
Well, yes, Nicolo Benenati shot a small-caliber bullet that grazed my torso like a neat little sewing stitch, out the other side, so it was more of a lark than it could have been, and I got the wound to stop bleeding a few hours afterward, happy day.
Hissing, I force my eyes shut until I’m less set on weeping all over Max, because it simply will not do. I like him. I like him awfully. I like his smooth brown lips and his wise-guy jabs and the way his eyelashes fan. I like his quiet magnetism. I like how he reminds me of someone.
Your nickname is Nobody, remember. Nobody at all.
“The trapeze act isn’t very cheery tonight,” I admit.
“Aw, look, there’s a doctor over in car three, and we can—”
“No doctor.”
“Why’s that, miss?”
“Because this is very silly nonsense, just an attack of nerves, probably, touch of stomachache, and I’m being a wretched little idiot. How long until Portland?”
“We’ll be there before dawn.”
“You’re a dear.”
“When we pull in,” I think Max says, his vowels thick and strong as big city blocks, “you’re coming with me, all right? I know a girl what don’t fancy a regular-type doctor when I see one. You’ll be just fine, Miss James. I’m gonna make sure.”
Nobody the sweet flapper would answer him, I think, but by now I live in a different world than he does, a seasick haze of nothing at all.
* * *
—
When I wake up, my bunkmate has returned. Looking dreadfully hopeful of conversation, and here I’m fresh out of the stuff. And probably about to lose consciousness again.
“Oh, Miss James, you are pale. Should I fetch you some ginger ale?”
Hearing Mrs. Muriel Snider speak, I reflect, is better than being shot. But not by a terribly wide margin.
“You’re so kind, but I couldn’t possibly put you to the trouble.” I offer her a shy smile.
Really, I’ve been doing a crackerjack job at not looking agonized.
Mrs. Muriel Snider has a face that makes me figure God took His inspiration from a potato. She’s sedately dressed in a brown traveling suit when she isn’t sedately dressed in a nightgown, and I’d wager that she’s sedately dressed in a bathing costume when taking a bath. The Nobody I am with her is fluttery and inexperienced, hinted she met with an embarrassing riding accident, devoutly Protestant, anxious whether she’s authoritative enough when giving her piano lessons, thinks grape juice should be served at all religious services including the Jewish ones, embarrassed to be unmarried. Knitter. That sort.
Thankfully, after stanching the bleeding left by the slug, I wore my most invisible duds. So she can’t fault this Nobody for being in the wrong clothes. It’s a below-the-knee skirt and a belted jacket in quiet shepherd check. And my honey-blond hair is bobbed, but long enough I can pin it so no one notices.
“Anyhow, we’re almost there, I hope?”
She checks her watch. “Oh, yes, dear. Are you sure you don’t want me to bring you some hot milk, perhaps? I wouldn’t trust this George of ours to get the temperature right.”
Smiling again, I picture round after round from a tommy gun shattering her skull, smash-crack, blood soaring like a startled flock of redbirds.
It isn’t like me. I’m not violent. But I’m in an awfully bad mood.
“This late, it’ll only upset my digestion, I fear.”
“Heavens, yes, I never noticed how long I was gone, for the kindest Presbyterian minister and his new wife were in the dining car—she’s already expecting