Dollface: A Novel of the Roaring Twenties by Renée Rosen

rolling through the slush and fresh piles of horse manure. I looped my arm through Shep’s as we walked, letting him steady me each time I felt myself slipping on the ice. It reminded me of how he’d held on to me the day we’d gone skating.
    “What do you feel like doing now, fellas?” Evelyn asked, reaching for Izzy’s arm.
    Izzy nudged Shep. “I’d say Schemer’s acting days are over.”
    Shep laughed. “You try telling him that.”
    “Hey”—Evelyn gave Izzy’s arm a tug—“what do you say we go get a drink someplace, huh?”
    “I’m not afraid of Drucci. I’ll tell him right to his face. He can’t act for shit.”
    “Izz.” Evelyn tugged at his arm again.
    “What!” He spun around and glared at her. “Can’t you see I’m talking here!”
    Evelyn pulled her hand away and began walking by herself, keeping her head down, snowflakes collecting on top of her hat. I dropped back and walked with her.
    “No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered, trying to comfort her. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
    Eventually Shep came and joined me while Izzy packed snowballs in his bare hands.
    As we made our way up State Street, the church bells rang out from Holy Name Cathedral. We passed a newspaper boy on the corner, sitting on a stack of Chicago Daily Gazettes .
    “Any good news in there today, kid?” Shep flipped the boy a nickel for a two-penny paper. The boy looked at the coin resting in his palm and said, “Hey, mister—wait! What about your paper? Don’tcha want your newspaper, mister?”
    “Nah.” Shep gave the kid a wink. “You read it for me, pal.”
    “That was nice of you,” I said, looking back at the paperboy still staring at the nickel in his hand.
    “Sometimes I can be a nice guy. Oh, wait.” He stopped. “Being nice means you’re dull, right?”
    I gave him a playful poke with my elbow.
    “Hey, look who’s here.” Izzy pointed to two men leaving Holy Name Cathedral. The one had a big, full face, and though he walked with a limp, he had a bounce to his step. The other was younger, with a smaller build, but he moved like a man twice his size.
    “Who’s that?” I asked.
    “Just a couple of buddies. The one guy owns this shop right here.”
    “The flower shop?” I looked up at the green-and-white-striped awning with the name Schofield’s scripted across the front.
    As we stood beneath the snow-topped awning, the introductions were made. The man with the limp was Dion O’Banion, owner of Schofield’s Flower Shop, and his somber-looking friend was Hymie Weiss. I couldn’t understand what a Jew was doing at Holy Name Cathedral, but it didn’t seem like an appropriate opening question, so I let it pass. We were still standing outside the flower shop, talking about the matinee, as the snow tapered off to flurries, letting the sun break through the thinning clouds.
    “You should have seen Drucci up there on that stage,” Izzy said, laughing again.
    “That bad, was he?” Dion chuckled.
    Shep shook his head. “Yeah, well, let’s just say—”
    A loud bang rang out. It gave me a jolt so intense, it reverberated inside my chest. Everyone froze, eyes shifting back and forth.
    “Hymie— no !” Shep called out as Hymie reached into his pocket, pulled out a gun and— Oh my God —fired off three wild shots.
    “Jesus shit!” I clutched my heart, squeezed Evelyn’s wrist and dropped to the ground, pulling her with me. I couldn’t breathe, and I was holding on to Evelyn so tight, my nails were digging into her skin. The sidewalk was a blur of people screaming and running for cover, while Hymie stood stoic, his rosary beads hanging from his front pocket as smoke drifted from the mouth of his revolver.
    “Aw, hold your horses, will ya?” Dion said to Hymie in his thick Irish brogue. “It was just an automobile backfiring is all.” He pointed to the black touring car turning onto Huron. “Everybody calm down. Coast is clear. Nothing