Bangor, Maine, 1932
Betty Montgomery had a split second to make her decision as she watched the fork of her customer arc to the floor, bounce twice and then settle onto the wood flooring with a slight clatter. It had been a subtle move granted, but she knew the man whose shirt cuff that had propelled it there, had done so on purpose. He feigned innocence of course, murmuring an apology as Betty slid her platter onto an empty table buying her a bit of time. She knew she would have to retrieve the wayward fork either way, but there were two ways she could do so. Running out of time, she chose the less-than-lady-like means and stooped at the waist and grabbed the utensil.
Betty was wearing a skirt, and a short skirt at that, she knew. She felt the hemline rise just above the tops of her garter stockings and then stretch tight over the curve of her bottom. The latter was only a few inches from one of two patrons of the restaurant where she worked, though the second fellow sitting across from him got a view himself, as he looked down at her chest, her modest breasts thrust upward and outward to greet leerers by her tight waitress uniform.
"Sassy women sell food," had been Sal's comment when he handed out the new waitress uniforms for his girls to wear. Betty had grudgingly agreed to wear it, though three other women chose to quit their jobs rather than wear such revealing outfits. Betty did not have that luxury. The Depression was tightening its grip, and it was not as if she was not breaking the law already. Prohibition, though weakening, was still in force, and yet they slopped around pitchers of Sal's illegally obtained beer to a city full of dry loggers.
Sal's speakeasy was only a block from the riverfront of Maine's Queen City, Bangor, and the river was teeming with logs. Spring floods had been especially large this year, and logs felled during the winter and were beginning to be floated down from the sluices up north, to the many lumber barrens of Bangor. Already the city was beginning to get overrun with loggers and lumber barrens alike.
It was the latter that Sal was hoping to entice. Alcohol might have been illegal, but his discreet saloon was not the only one catering to the dry people of the swollen city. The lumber barrens, flush with cash from a lucrative trade were far wealthier than the loggers, whose drunken antics and bar room fights could ruin a nights profits in as little as ten minutes. If enticing the more genteel lumber barrens with sassily dressed waitresses limited damages and increased profits, Sal had no quarrels with the loss of morality.
Surprisingly, neither did the waitresses. In the first week alone, Betty had noticed she had doubled her tips, and quickly found out, a glimpse at her stocking tops, a brush of her silk covered leg, or a seductive stance in her high heels could erase the tip-consuming errors of burnt toast, a forgotten item, or a weak alcohol concoction.
"There you go gentlemen. Slippery little fork, huh?" she asked with a broad smile. "I'll get you another. Is there anything else I can get for you fellas?"
"Yeah how about that fork again?" the man on the right asked with more than a little hint to his voice.
"We'll see," she commented with a wink as she spun around on one foot knowing full well their stares were glued to her backside as she sashayed her way back into the kitchen. So were the other patrons of the speakeasy, a few lumber buyers like them, while four loggers sat in the far corner watching her antics as well.
For the next twenty minutes Betty busied herself with all the tasks that besiege a waitress. She took a drink order, hustled some coffee, and even got two pieces of pie for the two lumber barrens before getting back to the table of four loggers. Just as she walked up the table, another utensil hit the floor, this time it was a spoon though, and far more obvious that it was purposely put there. Betty was already nervous about serving the loggers dressed as she was; they had a nasty reputation in a city that merely endured their kind.
Without even hesitating, Betty swooped down, but this time bent at the knees, scootching down to pick up the spoon without showing any of her assets to the foul-mouthed and obnoxious loggers.
"Here you go. Now is that all for you?" she asked, making sure to keep out of arms distance as she asked the question. All four men could not help but notice the indifference in her speech and mannerisms towards them, but it was the older, heavier set logger that brought it to her attention.
"What, no little peek for us?" he asked dropping another spoon on the floor, only this time making it so obvious that it infuriated Betty.
"No, you can get that yourself," she said, not bothering to dispense of any more questions as she dropped the check onto the table and turned to walk away. The oldest logger was not about to be treated so coldly and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her backwards onto his lap.
Betty made a little shriek at the infraction, but was unable to free herself from the arms that had built themselves so strongly from swinging an ax and wielding a crosscut saw. Still, she thrashed regardless and felt his hand wander up to her breasts. When it pinched her right breast, she let out an especially loud cry, but the speakeasy bouncer was already there. So was Sal, who saw the entire episode and had no intention of letting the four men treat one of his waitresses in such a way.
The bouncer was quick to pull the logger's hands off Betty and land a few punches that stunned the man enough for Betty to get out of his grasp. Sal strolled up and delivered a few hits himself, before speaking to them in a voice that demanded respect.
"Nobody touches my dames. Got it?"
The logger's knew there was little to gain from a brawl, and nodded, content to take a few punches and leave with their dignity then to end up floating down the Penobscot River by the hands of a well-heeled restaurant owner.
The four loggers left Sal's without further incident but faced Sal and his men as they retreated back up the stairs and onto the street to find other entertainment opportunities. There were many options, but for the moment, all the excitement the lead logger had generated had caused Eugene's bladder to look for release.
Stepping into the shadows of the alleyway, he stood relieving himself when he heard a noise further into the alley. He looked around, but already his trio of logging friends were walking down the boardwalk, their voices laughing and joking at what would certainly be a sensationalized story the next day at their logging camp.
Eugene moved closer, investigating cautiously as his drunken mind whirled with curiosity. He stepped closer, and then onto a sewer grate as the sound came again. Then suddenly there was another sound, the sound of metal pivoting on metal, and then the grate zoomed out from under his feet. For a split second he realized he was falling, but it was too late to yell out a scream. He descended into the bowels of the city, bouncing twice off a rough planked ramp that sent him sprawling onto the floor of an underground cavern.
Eugene lay on the cold granite cobble stoned floor for some time before starting out in the complete darkness to feel his way around his confines. It was a small room, perhaps eighteen feet across in both length and width, with brick walls and a single arched doorway. Passage into it was barred by a thick wooden door, locked from the other side. The room was empty except for the door and a chain that was strewn about in one corner.
Unable to see in the darkness, he grabbed one end of the chain and felt his way up the links towards it end. When he felt the wrought iron shackles on the other end, he knew where he was.
