And there she came, a woman with a dress so tight it seemed to struggle for breath, hair a cascade of black that tumbled gracefully past the shoulder, and skin so pale it was almost luminous in the darkness. The dress hung from her shoulders like a cloak and gave little hints of the curves that lurked beneath, while the stockings hugged her legs snuggly and followed the lines of her thighs and calves. Above the hem of the dress, showing in flashes with every step, were dark colored shoes that put a hint of severity into this otherwise alluring picture.


It was her face that truly shone, though. Long, dark eyelashes framed dreamy blue eyes that looked out from a pale face framed by the ripples of her hair. Her nose was narrow and elegant, and her lips once compressed in displeasure had softened into a smile that seemed to charm the devil out of every man in her path.


She walked into your dimly lit speakeasy, full for the first time in over a year. You held out a bottle of Canadian Whisky, sparkling in the dim blackness and commanding instant respect. "Here you go, beautiful stranger... Just to cheer you up." She sipped at the whisky and winced, withdrawing it. "I don't like it. Too much alcohol."


"Well, we serve what we can get. This is as close to Canadian Whisky as it gets." Except that it wasn't Canadian whisky - it was an Irish Whisky from your friend Davie, who worked on the docks. Not very good in your opinion, but sold hopefully to brash morons and the upper class, who you assumed would like a mix between foreign countries.


"I think I'll have a gin... You'll have to mix it with some tonic water though. I'm not quite used to the rum. The gin should be fine though." She smiled and sipped the paler drink.


After a moment of awkward silence, she asked, "Who are you, anyway?"


"I'm..." you paused, unsure if you should tell her the truth or not, but already planning how you were going to spin the story later. "I'm a criminal" you lied. "I'm ... a smuggler. I'm not one of the ones who do the actual smuggling," you added, holding back a small smirk. "I just make and sell stuff to the smugglers. It's easy money. We have a lot of bootleg liquor and cigarettes you can buy."


"And who is your boss?" she cooed.


"Yeah, I'm working for him. His name is ... is ... what exactly do you know about the criminal underworld?"


"Well, I've... Well, I've never dated in the underworld before. But I do know that my boyfriend is in charge of the local crime syndicate. And that doesn't make it sound too good. So I'm going to leave right now."


"But first," you interrupted, putting a hand on the tabletop next to her. "First, you have to tell me who you are and if you're dating anyone."


She took another sip of gin and tonic. "I ... um ... I'm Mandy. And yes, I'm dating the local mafia boss."


Oh no, you thought to yourself. No, this can't happen. "Mandy," you said aloud, trying to keep your cool. "I'm sure it's going to be okay. We probably just have a few things to learn about each other. Why don't you stay a while longer? It'll be fine. I promise."


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The gin and tonic was gone. She had poured herself another one, but she didn't drink it. Instead, she got up to leave. "Well, it's nice to meet you Mandy." You called after her. "And don't worry, I'll get it all worked out."


Mandy stopped and turned to face you, but didn't say anything. Instead, she turned and walked away.


The room spun around you. You felt angry and upset and afraid that you had lost a customer. You'd have to sell that bottle of hard liquor too - you couldn't have any empty stock. You felt the hot rush of anger threatening to overwhelm you, a year of planning smashed, but you steadied yourself against the obvious and worked through the probable.


Today was Wednesday. Tomorrow was Friday. If you sold her drinks, bought her at least one bottle of alcoholic drink, plus tip and gave her a good night out, she should be on the hook. It was Friday, you should have the weekend to work out exactly what to do. You had to get rid of your current criminal boss and marry into the local mob. But that would be easy.


Thursday passed, and on Friday you poured $50 of whiskey into Mandy's glass and you started making plans. You decided to sell the rest of your drink and start a bidding war for her attention.


The mob boss was a fat, hairy man. On his arm was a woman with a dim, vacuous smile and too much cheap material covering her body, but she walked into your place with him, enjoying his reflected glory, as he stuffed his face with food. Mandy ran across the room and threw her arms around him.


You swallowed hard. Everything was now at stake. You had worked on the criminal boss' behalf, helping him get bootlegged supplies and selling on to the smugglers that were bringing the goods in, for most of the past year. And now your boss was here, with his trollop and your true love; you could see it in her eyes. The heated feelings that had been growing in your chest now felt cold, as you reached for another cigarette. You stared at it a little longer than usual, and then reached into your pocket for a lighter.


The bidding war was short and vicious. Davie, behind the counter, winked. You had saved him a lot of money and, by extension, he was saving you a lot. He'd help you out; you knew he would.


You played the situation straight. You didn't want to let anyone know your true intentions. "She's a lovely girl," you said. "But I don't think I can afford her price."


You tossed your cigarette in an ashtray and walked out.


The next day, you woke up and wondered if you had dreamt it all. You walked out of your tiny apartment and surveyed the streets. A truck was there, a half dozen gangsters loading the back with crates of smuggled cigarettes, just like they did every day; they stacked them up in the back and then you used your car to drive off with the load.


You walked up to the mob boss' place, cigarette in hand. Mandy was standing on the porch, wearing a dress that showed off her small breasts and slender waist.