One afternoon eight weeks into their Joplin vacation, while sitting in a kitchen chair and taking pictures of the sunset, Courtney overhears Heather grousing from the parlor.
"Goddamnit," she says. "I'm sober."
Duncan plays an upbeat bar of music on his newly acquired saxophone in response.
"Go fuck yer husband, then," he suggests.
"He's sleeping."
Duncan plays another bar, jazzy. "How's that my problem?"
"You finished off our last bottle of scotch," Heather says. "Go replace it."
Duncan plays two notes, teasing. "Can't."
"And why the hell not?"
With expert precision, Duncan plays an upwards scale, lightning quick, and says, "Courtney's sucking my dick."
"I certainly am not!" she calls, lowering her camera. "I'm not even in the same room as you!"
"I'm trying this new thing called programming," Duncan calls back. "Some loon was talkin' about it on the radio. Y'see, ya picture the thing that ya want to happen, and then it happens. Would ya believe it?"
With an eye roll, Courtney pads into the parlor. Heather, Duncan, and Harold are lounging about in the dwindling afternoon sun.
"Keep programming, asshole. See how far that actually gets you," she says, messing Duncan's hair.
Heather chuckles, stretching cat-like on the chaise. "Good one."
"Whose side are you on?" Duncan demands.
"Never yours, Hotshot. I married the other Barrow for a reason."
"A choice that will live in infamy," Harold jokes, plucking at the strings of Al's guitar as its owner naps in his bedroom.
"C'mere, doll," Duncan says, pulling Courtney down to his lap for a kiss. He puts aside his saxophone, which is somewhat momentous as he's barely let it go since buying it in town last week.
"Hm, you wanna take more pictures?" Courtney suggests, lifting her camera.
Duncan takes it from her and lays it beside his sax. "Hon, I love posin' with my guns and my cars and my dames, but I'm startin' to think ya love that camera more than ya love me."
Courtney takes his face in her hands. "And I haven't been touched as much as that saxophone since Sunday. You and I, mister, are even."
Duncan pouts. "That ain't fair, doll. I ain't laid my hands on a saxophone in two years." He smirks. "I can lay my hands on ya whenever I want."
"True," Courtney says and kisses him again.
Behind them, Heather groans. "Get a different house, you two. It's bad enough I have to wear earplugs, don't make me watch."
"You know, it's your fault we're all bored out of our minds," Courtney says, turning to her with a hand on her hip. "You're the one that wanted to live here. There's nothing going on in this town."
"And we got kicked out of a country club for being rowdy," Harold reminds them.
"We've been staring at each other's faces for so long, our eyes are getting crossed," Courtney says. She glances over at the radio wistfully. "The music channel hasn't even been playing any good dance songs."
With a gleam in his eye, Duncan straightens up. "Yer right."
He gets up with no warning, and Courtney nearly hits the floor.
"Hey!"
"Get dressed, all of ya," he says to the girls and Harold. "Wake up my brother. I've got just the thing to get y'all up and at 'em."
They disperse, including Duncan, who goes to their bathroom to change into his suit. Courtney grabs her camera and returns it to her suitcase, and while shuffling through her limited supply of going-out clothes, she comes across the red beaded dress she bought with Heather.
In ten minutes, she does her makeup and finishes getting dressed, draping her lucky string of pearls down the front of her dress. Then she saunters back into the parlor where Duncan has returned to his saxophone.
"You still haven't told me how long you've been keeping this musical talent hidden from me," she jokes.
"Since I was thirteen," he says without turning around. "The only reason I believe I've got a Pa at all is 'cause of the magical sax that showed up on my doorstep one Christmas." He goes back to whizzing through a saxophone solo.
"Duncan, turn around."
He glances her way and stops playing mid-note. Courtney spins so he can see the dress.
"I like it," he says, tossing the sax on the couch and walking over. "Take it off."
"Uh uh," she says, pushing him away. "This is a going-out dress. I'm not spending another night in this apartment playing drunken cards if you're saying there's something better in town."
"This is what I get for not keeping my mouth shut," he mutters as the others come out of their rooms, dressed for festivities. "Alright, everyone in the car. I'm driving."
The five drive to a warehouse just on the outside of the city line that looks relatively abandoned other than a beat up truck in the back. Courtney checks, but there's nothing else in sight. She sticks close to Duncan's side.
"What is this place?"
"You'll see, doll," Duncan says, walking up to the sliding front door and knocking.
"But...what happened to laying low?" Harold asks, wringing his hat.
A man slides open the door slightly, takes one look at him, and lets them all pass.
"This is lying low," Duncan answers. "Ya can't get lower than hanging with the lowlifes."
The door opens to reveal that the bare warehouse has been made up into a makeshift speakeasy. A stage is set up at the far corner, lit by strings of bulbs, while a band plays. Collapsible tables line the outer rim of a plywood dancefloor where couples dance to ragtime. A short wall of crates and an irritable looking man indicates a bar.
The small crowd tenses and subtly glances their way, before relaxing. They're more than likely all criminals. In fact, two of them spot Duncan and walk over to start up a conversation. Courtney goes to the bar.
"A dry martini, please."
"Whaddya think this is, the goddamned Ritz?" the man says. "Ya get beer, or a scotch. Take yer pick, doll."
Courtney grits her teeth but orders a beer. As she takes a swig, she scans the crowd. Duncan's still talking to the criminals, and Al and Heather mill through the crowd separately. Harold is trying to talk to a burly looking man who doesn't seem to understand Harold's obvious excitement.
The band starts playing something Courtney's never heard before. Her foot taps along to the beat, and she quickly chugs the rest of her beer before joining Duncan and his company.
"So I says to him, 'Ya think this is bad? Wait till ya see him when he's sober!'"
The men laugh at Duncan's story as Courtney sidles up beside him, bumping his hip.
"Boys, let me introduce ya to the lovely Bonnie Jones," he says, wrapping his arm around her waist. "She's been running with me these last few months."
"A pleasure, muffin," one of the men says, taking her hand for a kiss. "I read about ya in Arkansas and Tulsa. I was wondering with my buddy Methvin here when I'd get the chance to see yer face. The poor laws don't have the luxury of your mugshot."
Courtney giggles. Duncan pulls Courtney's hand out of his grip. "Ay, now watch yerself, Fults. She's spoken for."
"Don't be rude, Duncan," Courtney admonishes. To Fults, she says, "Which papers? I'll have to cut out the clippings for my collection."
"Nothing fancy, just the locals. Still, ya make a hell of an impression."
"My gal's something of an artist," Duncan says, kissing the crown of her head. "Poet and collector and photographer."
"And dancer," Courtney adds. "Scuse me, fellas. But I'm gonna have to steal Mister Clyde for a dance."
The other man, Methvin, laughs in her face. "Clyde's a cement mixer. He don't dance, doll."
"You willing to wager he'll dance with me?" she offers coyly, pulling a five from inside her dress. The men glance at each other, at Duncan, and laugh again.
"Sure thing," Fults says, and both men match her money.
Duncan plucks the bills out of their hands. "I should warn you fellas, I'm mighty rusty on the dancefloor. But I'll give it a go for Miss Bonnie here." He tips his hat in their stunned faces and leads Courtney out on the dancefloor.
"Easiest fifteen dollars I ever made," she says, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You really don't dance?"
"Nah, I dance a mean swing," he admits with a wink, moving his hands from her hips to her ass. "I just like hustling Fultz and Methvin."
"Your secret's safe with me," she says, holding onto his hand and twirling.
He cracks a grin as she spins back into him. "Let's show these cats how its done, yeah?"
Duncan, despite not having much coordination, gets creative. He dips her when she's not expecting it, and spins her when she is. They end up out of breath and nearly tripping over each other. He gives her a break and pulls her to his chest, swaying them back and forth in a simple rhythm.
"This is much more fun than that boring apartment," Courtney says.
"Yeah, well that boring apartment is keeping the bullets from your head," he says, his expression sobering. "After what ya pulled in Tulsa, sending Harold back to the bank, we're all lucky we ain't dead yet."
"Quit whining, it isn't attractive," Courtney brushes off with a shrug, spinning out and then back inside his arms again.
Duncan holds her tightly in place. "Yer getting better, darlin," he whispers in her ear, "but don't mistake being better at something with being the best."
"I shouldn't have to run everything I want to do by you first," she insists.
"Except in this job, ya have to," he says, "unless ya want to get us all killed. Ya think Heather does a thing without running it by me or Al first?"
Courtney glances out at the floor for Heather. She spots Al in the corner talking to a burly looking associate with an anchor tattoo. It takes her a second longer to spot Heather at the bar sidling up to another man.
"She doesn't seem to be running anything by Al right now," Courtney mutters.
Duncan turns them around so Courtney can see better. "Look again."
The man slides Heather a drink and takes her hand for a kiss, slipping money into her palm.
"We make our life's work off the fact that appearances are deceiving," he says. "Keep that in mind. It's dangerous times out here for all of us."
Courtney's mouth tenses in a hard line but she nods. The music no longer sounds as appealing. "Can we take a break?"
Duncan leads her out towards a couple of bar stools. "D'ya want a drink?"
Courtney shakes her head no, her stomach unsettled. Duncan gets himself a scotch, and she stares around the speakeasy once more. Out of the corner of her eye, Courtney spots Heather walking over to interrupt her husband's chat with the burly looking goon, whispering something in his ear.
When Harold walks over, he finds Courtney frowning.
"Can you believe the people in this place?" Harold exclaims. "So many famous gangsters!"
Courtney looks the crowd over. "I don't recognize anyone."
Harold chuckles. "You only followed Clyde in the papers, but trust me when I tell you we're surrounded by criminal royalty. Don't want to mess with any of these guys. Or their molls."
"So I take it you haven't had a dance yet," Courtney guesses.
"On the contrary," Harold says happily. "Miss Leshawna has promised me a dance once her set is done."
Harold waves at the large woman on stage, singing with the band and she smiles at him, winking.
"Don't hold yer breath on that dance," Duncan says, returning with his scotch. "Heard from some jobbies at the bar that they'll be clearing this place out in about an hour. We should be gone by then."
Harold looks crestfallen.
"Why?" Courtney asks. "I was having a good time."
"The coppers might want to join us for a swan song," Duncan quips, gesturing Heather and Al over.
"You said yourself that they won't be here for another hour. Let's stay a little longer, please?" Courtney asks. "It really isn't fair to Harold to keep him from his dance with.. Leshonda, was it?"
"Leshawna!" Harold rasps.
"Let's stay another twenty minutes," she pleads. "That way we have plenty of time to leave before the cops come around. We can even ask the band leader if he'll let you play sax with them."
Duncan ponders for a moment. "Twenty minutes on the dot."
Al and Heather come over, arm in arm.
"Problem, Clyde? Heather was just starting to play nice." Heather elbows him in the ribs.
"Nothing. No problem, we're leaving in twenty minutes."
Leshawna finishes her song and takes a small bow before gesturing to Harold. His face lights up before he dashes over with hardly a goodbye. A different, faster tune starts up.
"They're playing my song," Heather says, swaying her hips. "Shall we?" she asks Alejandro, holding out her hand.
"We could outdance ya any day," Duncan challenges.
"I'll wager that, hermano."
Fifteen minutes, four songs, and two more rounds of liquor later, a small spindly man comes rushing in the front door, panting and out of breath.
"We got coppers! Five miles out!"
Every man in the vicinity springs into motion like a well-oiled clock. They begin grabbing bottles and tables, lighting and chairs. Al grabs a milk crate and starts loading it up with full bottles of liquor, a stack of cards, and poker chips.
"That's my cue, babydoll," Lashawna says to Harold, pecking him on the cheek. "Be good to yourself."
"But they said an hour!" Courtney insists as Duncan pulls her out the door and to the car.
"Don't worry, doll," Duncan kisses Courtney roughly, pushing her up against the outside of the car as the others run out. "Our party is just beginning."
A/N: Next chapter: shit, meet fan.