He nodded as though he knew something but kept his lustful lips zipped.

Relieved to see Abe waving me toward him, I walked past the chorus moll and shook my client’s hand.

“He really looks like a broad,” I said, still astounded by how innately feminine the prostitute was.

“My Rosie,” Abe sighed, looking affectionately toward the waif, who was engaged in conversation with another man.

“You call him Rosie?” It made sense.

“I do. He’s my broken boy,” Abe frowned. “I’ve never met a more sensitive soul.”

“Then he acts like a broad, too?” I joked.

Abe didn’t laugh; instead, he said, “Rosie’s been with me for half a year, and I don’t think I’ve seen him smile once.”

“So, he’s one of your strays?”

Abraham’s residence was directly above The Gallery, a large open loft he dubbed “The Studio.” With him lived a screwy gaggle of queens, artists, and otherwise eclectic individuals who had found Abraham when they had nowhere else to go.

“Another runaway,” Abe confirmed. “The cities understand people like Rosie,” he paused and held an arm out to the patrons, “like all of us, but the small towns aren’t there yet.”

“I guess that type of thing takes time,” I said, following Abe back to his office to discuss the excess liquor he needed for The Gallery’s New Year’s Eve party in a few weeks. “I take it drink sales are still going strong?”

“Better than ever,” Abe assured. “I know many blind tigers in other parts of Chicago are suffering the ramifications of the crash, but Towertown is thriving, my friend.”

“Glad to hear it,” I nodded, watching as he opened the door. I was surprised to find a handsome young redhead sitting in Abraham’s chair. Luckily, Abe was not taken aback by his presence.

“Hey, Peach,” the older man greeted, resting his hand on the visitor’s freckled cheek. “I need to use the office.”

“Okay,” he said easily, placing his pen atop his paper and sliding it to the side of Abraham’s desk.

Though they didn’t exchange any more words or touches before the tall, well-muscled man walked out of the office, I could tell there was something between them. After all, Abraham made a habit of stockpiling the stunning for himself.

When Abraham suggested that I come to The Gallery on State for its New Year’s celebration, I declined, but when he offered to pick up my tab, I obliged eagerly. Though I always had my hands on whiskey, I very rarely brought it to my mouth. It was only during my trips to the parlor that I allowed myself to indulge—in so many ways. Drinking the profits never sat well with me, but when it wasn’t dime, I was certainly into having a good time.