Too BAD

Peggy knew that not all superheroes wore capes – but did they ever work in a bank?

Manhattan, September 1922. The party was in full swing with Jelly Roll Morton playing on the phonograph when the door burst open and a bunch of men in long, grey trench coats and Trilby hats barged in.

‘No one move!’ one of them shouted.

At first, Peggy couldn’t figure out what was going on. Voices were raised, the music was still playing and she was at the back of the room, by the window, so didn’t have a good view.

Suddenly the man beside her grabbed her arm and hissed, ‘Quick! The fire escape! Come with me.’

He climbed out of the open window onto the metal balcony, pulling Peggy with him.

‘Prohibition agents,’ he gestured back into the room. ‘It’s a raid. I don’t want to get a summons. My boss would be furious.’

Peggy opened her mouth to say she was sure they wouldn’t be in any trouble. She’d been at parties that were raided and knew the agents were looking for those who’d supplied the alcohol, not the guests drinking it.

Then she noticed the man was tall and attractive with sandy blond hair and a masculine jaw. It felt as if this might turn into an adventure, and she was definitely in the mood for one.

He helped her onto the ladder, cautioning, ‘Best not to look down.’

They were on the fifth floor, but Peggy wasn’t scared of heights. She clambered down to the balcony below and squeezed round the edge of the ladder towards the next one, her high heels clacking on the metal grille.

When they reached the first floor, the man bent and opened the catch to release the final ladder. There was a five-foot drop from the bottom of it to the sidewalk.