Liz tugged at the hem of her dress, the sparkling beads clacking under her fingers – the dress was impossibly short and it was getting chilly outside. She had been waiting for 10 minutes in the winter cold for the shop to clear but it was a busy evening. Through that unassuming door and possibly a few more, Raymond Reddington was waiting for her and, for the first time since they met, she was nervous. Before the sun had gone down that evening she had already changed her outfit three times, wondering if maybe instead of wearing the dress he had sent her that maybe she should choose something a little bit more conservative. This was business, at its root, after all. He was her anonymous source for an interest piece she had been writing for the paper; but something about the way he looked at her while they spoke always made her feel like she was the one being exposed and studied. She had to remind herself that he was a bootlegger and a criminal, but there was always something about him that intrigued her as much as she seemed to intrigue him.
She anxiously checked her reflection in a nearby shop window, giving herself another chance to feel unsure. Her hair was pulled back tightly and swept into a curly bun below her ear. She had dared to try on the lipstick that Meera had gotten her for her birthday, smeared it off and then reapplied again. It was the first time she had left the house in makeup and it made her feel like she was all lips – a giant red-mouthed, porcelain powdered doll. She could only guess that she looked like a passable speakeasy patron as she'd never been to one before; all she knew was that she looked nothing like herself. Then again that was part of the whole point of the evening.
Her instructions were to go to the jeweler's on 58th street and ask for Jimmy. If the woman behind the counter said that he was in the back fixing a watch, Liz was to say "Tell him I'm looking for something red." According to Reddington's instructions that would be the sign that she was safe to enter.
Finally the shop cleared and she ran across the cobbled street, the breeze kicking up the hem of her skirt. The bell clanged against the door as she opened it, startling her a little bit and flustering her composure. She smiled awkwardly at the woman behind the counter as the bell clanged again as the door closed indelicately behind her in her haste.
"I'm here to see Jimmy," she said clearing her throat. After what seemed too long, the women replied.
"He's in the back, fixing a watch."
"Tell him I'm looking for something red."
The woman looked past her, out onto the lamp-lit street. She waited a moment to make sure the coast was clear then, finally, she motioned for Liz to follow her into the back of the store, toward a stockroom. She pulled back a curtain that covered an ornate, seemingly heavy door. As the woman struggled to open it, Lizzie could hear the muffled clinking of glasses and the distinct sound of drunken laughter. She whispered a thank you as she made her way down a staircase arriving at another heavy door. She leaned hard against the door as it squeaked open into a room of people, all of them too entertained to notice her. All but one, anyway… the handsome man sitting in the corner with the dapper suit and the wry smile… Raymond Reddington.
The smell of liquor and sweat overwhelmed the air, but it was hard to ignore the otherworldly ambiance. Bottles of every kind of hooch you'd ever heard of lined the shelf behind the bar where a man in a tie was serving drinks. He nodded at Reddington as he crossed the surprisingly expansive space to greet her.
"Miss Keen, what a pleasure it is to see you again," he said huskily, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek.
"Thank you. I apologize for being late, I'm afraid we'll be a bit short on time."
"Juice joints don't close at 10:00pm, Lizzie."
"Yes, but my eyelids do, Mr. Reddington." They shared an amiable but stilted laugh. It wasn't business yet, but it was a very proper and formal kind of pleasure.
"I have to insist that you call me Red. This 'Mr. Reddington' business makes it sound like we have a professional relationship," he said.
"That is the nature of our relationship," she said, smiling a bit, hoping for the mood to remain light. "I'm here on assignment, you might remember. Journalism is quite literally my profession."
"There are no professionals this far underground, Lizzie. It may be where the money is made, but it's not where the real business happens," he said. "And it certainly isn't where articles are written, it's where the research is done and a very unconventional kind at that. Now let's get you a drink before the band starts."
"Oh, I don't drink," she said.
"As a matter of principle or out of fear of your government?" he asked, clearly amused.
"Well the 18th amendment does make it fairly hard," she said, gesturing around them as if to remind him why they were drinking in an underground bunker. A very ritzy one, as it may have been, but an illegal hideaway none the less.
"I personally don't pay much attention to what the government thinks is good for me. Plus anything that the Klan is for is something I generally find myself opposing."
"I suppose now is as good a time as any, if I'm going to get the full experience," she said, resigning herself to the idea that it really wouldn't be a properly researched assignment without at least trying a drink.
"Then you're in the right place. I have had some bathtub swill in this town that you would swear could knock a buzzard off a corpse. I went temporarily blind once due to an innocent overindulgence in Gin Rickies at a particularly disreputable nightclub. Quality over quantity, but both if you can find it: that's always been my motto."
"I'll take whatever lets me keep my vision, then," she said, taken aback by his devil-may-care attitude about nearly losing his sight.
"Bubbles, sugar, fruit or all three?" he asked.
"Bubbles and sugar, please."
He smiled at her as she took off her jacket, her arms bare in the chilly dampness of the basement room. She watched his eyes follow her shoulders, her arms, her fingers… self-consciously, she moved to play with her hair, remembering at the last moment that it was in too intentional a shape to fiddle with.
"The dress looks absolutely stunning on you, Lizzie. I knew red was the right choice," he reached out to touch the fabric at her shoulder. "I'll go order our drinks, the bar is about to get popular."
He was right, in the short time she had been there people had been steadily filing into the room: women in silken dresses, raucous men in long jacketed suits, slightly more demure women in hats and stoles. She smiled for a moment watching them mingle together, migrating in groups to the bar where Red was making lively conversation with the bartender. She was busy observing a particularly stylish looking woman and her astonishingly low cut dress when Red came back to the table carrying their drinks.
The drink that she assumed was his was served in a squat little glass, sweating from ice cubes. Hers made a much more elegant impression, an effervescent gold elixir in a tall slender flute.
"Are you going to tell me what's in this?" she asked, guessing that she already knew the answer.
"In the interest of not becoming predictable, I might," he said, grinning over his glass as he took a sip. "It's a French 75. Gin, champagne, lemon juice and sugar – beautiful, delicate, refreshing. I order drinks the way I pick out greeting cards, to suit the recipient."
"If you keep talking like that, Red, I'm going to start thinking you're stuck on me," she said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks from taking such a flirtatious risk.
"Well, aren't you presumptuous?"
"When it's a safe bet, certainly. I'm observant, not egotistical." What are you doing, Liz? she thought to herself.
Red watched her with blatant curiosity as she raised her glass to her lips. The bubbles from the champagne tickled her nose and the tartness of the lemon made her mouth water. It wasn't enough however to mask the scent of the acrid, juniper sting of gin. She felt her nose crinkle in involuntary protest, but touched the rim of the glass to her lips and took what she hoped was a confident looking sip. The potency of the liquor punched the back of her throat and made her cough; her eyes watered at the corners but she blinked back the tiny buds of forming tears.
"Too much?" Red asked, baiting her to complain. "Don't be embarrassed, most women are a bit sensitive to the taste at first."
"It's not because I'm a woman," she croaked. "It's because I have taste buds." Without a second thought, she threw back the rest of the drink in a few gulps
His stare stayed fixed on hers as he smirked, gathering the corners of his eyes into amused wrinkles. He blinked slowly now, his gaze becoming inquisitive. She felt a warmth gather in her chest as the effects of the drink started to take a hold of her. She wasn't sure if it was a matter of fact or suggestion, but she felt her inhibitions begin to dampen and she leaned forward, letting her neckline slacken just slightly. And like a cat watching a mouse, his gaze fell below her face.
"Do you dance, Lizzie?" he asked, suddenly becoming interested in something going on behind her.
"I do not. Normally."
As she said the words, a swell of horns filled the air with wailing but beautiful vibrations. The crowd came to its feet in a moment, filling the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room. Red got up from his chair and extended his hand to her, but her hesitance was palpable. He raised an eyebrow.
"I ummm…" she said, shaking her head.
"I'll show you," he said, gently reassuring her.
He placed a hand under her elbow, lifting her from her chair in a swift move and, in another, swept her in close.
"Just relax, Lizzie. Follow your instincts."
Her head felt woozy – had it only been one drink? The footwork came easily at first but mostly because she didn't have the time to think. All she was processing was the feeling of his hand pressed firmly against her shoulder blade, the crook of his arm pushing her back and forth, side to side. The feeling of his suit against her bare skin was distracting, just a slight scratch to but still lovely in its softness.
"You're very good at this for someone who doesn't dance. I think you've been holding out on me," he said, speaking very close to her ear, his breath ghosting across her neck. And like a curse, she stumbled. She became aware of her feet, trying to find the beat, the previous patterned sway… but the more she tried, the worse it got. His soft, gravelly chuckle didn't help matters.
"Remember… follow your instincts, Lizzie."
She looked up, hoping to catch his eye but found that doing so stopped her feet entirely. Follow your instincts.
She reached for him in a haze of horns and liquor and pulled him toward her by the lapel of his jacket. At the last moment she closed her eyes, hoping that those instincts would bring her lips to his, but instead she found his lips at her ear.
"Can I take you home?" he asked, his voice slurring gently.
She sighed heavily; her first drink and she had managed to scare him away entirely. This is why nice girls don't drink, Elizabeth. It never gets you what you want.
She nodded, feeling defeated as she picked up her coat and followed him through a back door into the night. The horns were still blaring inside, but were muffled now by the brick and steel of the building's façade. The cold wind in the alleyway was a harsh reminder of what she'd done – let her usually sharp and clever instincts slip away from her and given in to temptation instead.
He opened the curbside door of a very large, very gold Duisenberg. Of course. Her first ride in a car this nice and all she would be able to think about was getting rejected.
"I live on 25th, just down Broadway," she said, trying not to sound as disappointed as she was.
He did not answer right away. She was surprised when after a beat he began laughing mirthfully, shutting the car door again. He closed the distance between them with a few steps, his shoes clacking against the wet concrete. He placed his hand behind her neck, and dazed her with a kiss that pressed her back against the wall. His mouth was warm and he still tasted of gin, but this time it didn't make her recoil. He was gentle with her… it felt like an apology.
"When I meant that I was going to take you home, I meant to my home… not to yours."
Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn't scared him off after all. Maybe it was the dress, maybe it was the cosmetics, maybe it was the gin, but she felt empowered by the idea that her risk had paid off. She had never been that flirtatious with any man before, but it was a night of firsts after all.
"Well aren't you presumptuous?" she said, smirking at him the way he always did with her.
He laughed, hearing his own words used against him.
"When it's a safe bet, certainly."