dust building up under the tarp had Ginger pinching her nose, but she almost wet herself when she heard Brock give the policeman permission to look under the tarp. She couldn’t be discovered, not this close to home.
They might as well haul her to the hoosegow. At least she’d get bread and water there. At home, her father would lock her in the room that he’d had his men paint pale pink on her last birthday and throw away the key. Pale pink. Norma Rose got a new Cadillac. Ginger, a pale pink paint job. She didn’t even like pink. Red was her color. Bright red. Like her lipstick and fingernail paint.
To be fair, her father had bought her new furniture along with the paint, but a new bed was no fun when you slept alone. That’s what she was tired of. Being alone. Watching all the dancing and fun through the staircase rail. She wanted to live it all, not watch it.
“Peterson, what are you doing? Keep that traffic moving!”
Ginger willed not so much as an eyelash to flutter. That wasn’t Brock or the other voice she’d heard a moment ago. It was pitch-black under the tarp, but the noise said they’d entered town and they might even be surrounded by coppers.
“Might have us a bootlegger here, Sarge.”
The answer came from the first man Brock had spoken to. Ginger’s very toes quivered. She was right. Coppers. Plenty of them.
“No runner’s gonna drive up to a blockade,” the third man said.
Ginger chewed on her lip so hard her lipstick lost its cherry flavor. Panicking right now wouldn’t cut the mustard. She bit down harder, focusing on the pain instead of her welling fear.
“Don’t you recognize that truck?” the third man asked. “It’s the milkman’s. How’s your father doing?”
“Good,” Brock answered.
That was a lie. Ginger knew Brock’s father hadn’t walked since he’d been shot while delivering milk in St. Paul, near Pig’s Eye Tavern early one morning last year.
“Sorry thing what happened to him.” The third man was still talking. “Real sorry thing. Where you headed?”
“Chicago,” Brock answered.
“You don’t say? What for?”
“Got a chance to perform on the radio. The back’s full of instruments. And gas. Enough to make it most of the way. Go ahead and take a look.”
“No need for that,” the man said. “But you best take the river road. There’s a standoff a few blocks up this way.”
“Thanks,” Brock answered.
“Good luck,” the man answered before shouting, “Peterson, clear a path for him to turn around, and then send the rest of the traffic around that way.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Ginger grabbed the edge of the sideboard as the truck jerked and jolted before it made a full U-turn. Then a loud whistle made her smack her head against the guitar case again.
“Hey!”
Ginger ducked, afraid she’d been seen right through the tarp.
“What?” Brock answered.
“Your rope’s untied. It’s hanging over the side!” the cop shouted.
Ginger broke out in a sweat. She started praying, too. And begging Brock not to stop.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll retie it after I get through town.”
Relief washed over her so thoroughly that Ginger slumped against the guitar case. However, she didn’t release her breath until long after the truck was rolling down the road again.
Then, gasping, she pulled back the corner of the tarp to let a bit of fresh air in. It was cool and refreshing and she poked her nose into the opening and breathed deeply until the stringent scent of gas forced her to tuck the tarp back in place.
City sounds faded and, elated she’d made it this far, Ginger shifted around to lean against the guitar case. Excitement hummed inside her. Chicago. Upon hearing she’d run away, folks might think she’d gone all the way to California. Hollywood. She’d talked about it often enough. Truth was, it made no difference. Chicago was just as good. Freedom. Dancing. Singing. There’d be no more washing sheets and beating rugs. No more cleaning up the remnants of other people’s parties.
Smiling, she stretched her cramped legs as much as possible and let visions of her future dance in her head. When a yawn pulled at her throat, she let it out and snuggled up against the case.
* * *
Dust choked her, and it took a moment for Ginger to remember she was in the back of Brock’s truck. He was whistling a jazzy tune that had her wanting to tap a toe. She didn’t. He was right next to her, pouring gas into the truck’s fuel tank from the extra cans strapped along the backside of the truck.
She’d never realized just how awful gas smelled and was thankful the cans weren’t under the tarp with her. It wasn’t nearly as dark as it had been. Morning must have broken. Chicago might be only a few hours away. She couldn’t wait. She’d wear her white-and-red polka-dot dress and white silk scarf when Brock went to the radio station. Her white shoes, too. He was sure to let her go with him when—“Ouch!”
Ginger slapped a hand over her mouth. Brock must have decided to retie the rope and it smacked the top of her head in the process. She held her breath, hoping beyond hope he hadn’t heard her.
A moment later, sunlight stung her eyes as the tarp flew back.
Brock’s black-and-white tweed flat cap sat cockeyed on his head. One edge of the little brim was right above one dark eyebrow, while the other sat near the side parting of his slicked-back hair. He always looked dapper in that hat. However, right now, his eyes had the menacing glare of a copper on the beat.
Ginger swallowed the lump in her throat. “Good morning.”
“Good mor—what the—” Brock grabbed her arms and pulled her forward, forcing her to sit upright. “What are you doing here?”
His fingers dug into her upper arms and, for the life of her, Ginger couldn’t quite remember what she was doing. All the girls thought Brock was the bee’s knees. Mitsy Kemper claimed to have necked with him once, said kissing him was the cat’s meow. Ginger had wanted to push Mitsy right out of Twyla’s car when she’d been talking about necking with Brock. She might have done if she’d been in the backseat beside her.
Mitsy was forgotten when Brock yanked her up and over the side of the truck.
“What are you doing here?” he all but shouted.
She’d lost a shoe and batted his hands away as soon as he set her on the ground. After checking to make sure her skirt hadn’t been torn, she snatched her shoe out of the truck and slid it on her foot. “I’m going to Chicago,” she said. “You best be glad you didn’t tear my skirt.”
“A torn skirt is the least of your worries, Ginger,” he said, waggling a finger before her face. He
