Hello and welcome!
This is just a moment out of an unfinished story titled Death by Morning set during the Jazz Age.
A Dodge sedan stood chugging in the dooryard, black as sin against the sparkling snow. A man emptied straw-wrapped bottles from the car into wooden crates, which he then stacked beside the kitchen door. He kept a steady pace, fedora jammed low on his head, flannel muffler wrapped around his neck and mouth, ears red. The bootlegger either did not see him or ignored him, but his shape at least recalled to Monty Ben’s body, the breadth of his shoulders, the way the overcoat fell down his back. Monty sucked hard on the cigarette, wishing again for that drink.
Where are you, dammit? How could you forget me so easily?
But look, Ben, your ghost has brought me whiskey, huzzah.
“Will you be able to drive back in this?” From the kitchen, a voice called out over the noisy engine of the Dodge. “You should stay in town if you can’t.”
“I’ve got a few trips to make. I’ll be back for dinner.” The man in the fedora moved around the car quickly, too quickly, and skidded a little in the icy mess the yard had become, then righted himself with a gloved hand slapped on the fender. He tapped the brim of his hat to Monty with a rueful half smile before he got in the car and drove away.
Monty nodded, warmed by that smile. He’d like to have seen more of that. But the wind was cutting through his fancy winter gear, city winter gear, really what was he thinking packing all this stylish but impractical stuff? He needed whiskey, lots of Canadian whisky to get warm again.
He allowed himself the briefest of fantasies. The bootlegger shoving him into his car, driving away with him to his–hideout? Den? Some place where they two could fall on each other, tearing at each other’s clothes, rough cheeks and tongues, and hot whiskey kisses….
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photo credit: http://www.allpar.com/cars/dodge/dodge-cars.html