BOOTLEG BROADWAY, a story of debauchery and a little romance
by Diana Rubino
Booze, music, sex, murder, Prohibition… NewYork…what a time
to be alive!
The birth of BOOTLEG
BROADWAY:
With FROM HERE TO 14TH
STREET set in 1894, I needed to set this a generation later, which happened to
be the 1930s—with Prohibition and the Great Depression as the backdrop. This is
the first book I ever wrote where I created the characters first, with nothing
to do yet. The plot developed the way it did because of who they are. My goal
was to get the protagonist Billy McGlory into one mess after another. This era
couldn’t have been more suited to Billy’s adventures, a few of which he barely
escaped with his life.
About BOOTLEG BROADWAY:
In this sequel to FROM HERE
TO 14TH STREET, Vita and Tom McGlory and their three children are
struggling to make ends meet.
It's 1932. Prohibition rages,
the Depression ravages, and Billy McGlory comes of age whether he wants to or
not. Musical and adventurous, Billy dreams of having his own ritzy supper club
and big band. On the eve of Billy’s marriage to the pregnant Prudence, the
shifty "businessman" Rosario Ingovito offers him all that and more.
Fame, fortune, his own Broadway musical…it's all his for the taking, despite
Pru's opposition to Rosie's ventures.
Meanwhile, Pru's artistic career gains momentum and their child is born. Can
anything go wrong for Billy? Only when he gets in way over his head does he
stop to wonder how his business partner really makes his millions, but by then
it's far too late…
Nicknames from real life:
As in FROM HERE TO 14th
STREET, a lot of characters have nicknames like Piggy Balls and Dirty Neck
Bruiso. I sat around the table with my surviving aunts and uncles who were then
in their 80s and 90s, and they rattled off these nicknames from ‘the old days’
in Jersey City like they made them up yesterday. That was a standard Italian
neighborhood custom, everybody had a nickname. Some were more descriptive than
others. But you didn’t just ‘get’ a nickname. You had to earn it.
Some more nicknames from the
old neighborhood:
Bruno Chicken Body
Butta Jeans
Charlie Burp
Chick a la zoo
Dirty Dicky
Dirty Neck Bruiso
Floody
Frankie Butch Butch
Gravel Gertie
Hoo Hoo
Jazzy Lou
Jijji Balls
Jinji
Johnny in for the pot
Juu-jo
Sloppy
Vigi-Leak
My fav passage from BOOTLEG
BROADWAY (which made my aunt cringe):
Pru had kept closemouthed all day about what she was
giving him for his birthday. He badgered and hounded her, but she wouldn’t give
in.
As Ma began divvying up the rum cake, the doorbell
rang, and Da came back with a long box. “This thing’s heavy. What’s in here,
Pru? Billy’s tombstone?”
Billy cut the ribbon with the cake knife and slid the
lid off. Wads of tissue paper filled the box. As he removed the last layer of covering
and revealed what was inside, they all gasped—a sculpture of a naked man, in
all his masculine glory—and fully aroused. He had one hand on his hip and one
foot upon a pedestal on which was inscribed in bold letters, “BILLY.”
“Oh, crap.” His face turned red hot.
Where Did I Begin?
This was the first book I
ever wrote where I created the characters first, with no storyline whatsoever.
All I knew was that it was during Prohibition, and I wanted to get the main
character, Billy McGlory, into one mess after another.
Here’s a prime example of
that, in this excerpt:
Heading south on Madison Avenue, I heard
the siren. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the unmistakable
Greyhound radiator ornament of the Lincoln behind me. Cop car. All the gangsters
drove Lincolns, which had a top speed of 80, so the cops had to get Lincolns to
keep up with them. I tried to get the hell out of his way—he must've been going
to a robbery or a diner or something. I pulled over, and he pulled up next to
me. Oh, shit. It was me he was after.
I rolled down the window and asked
sweetly, "Yes, sir, what can I do for you, sir?"
"License and registration
please."
"Uh—what's wrong, officer? Did I
commit a traffic violation?" As the son of the ex-Chief of Police, I
should have been real comfortable around cops, but to tell the truth, they
scared the hell out of me. The cops my father knew weren't the crooked ones.
They were the straightassed ones, just like him, who fought Tammany and made a
career out of busting crooks. They didn't have a price, like the rest of them.
Hardnosed bastards, some were frustrated politicians and not smart enough to
get into law school, so they enforced the laws from behind their badges. Hell,
I was all for law and order, but these guys sometimes took it too far.
"Your back license plate is missing."
Relief drained me. "Oh, drat. It
must've got stolen. You know this city—just crawlin' with thieves."
"License and registration,
please," he repeated, in what passed for a more menacing cop voice. Now he
assumed his cop stance, pudgy fists on meaty hips, waiting while I dug through
the glove compartment, tossing aside all the crumpled up sheet music and junk
crammed in there. Oh, that's where my emergency pack of cigarettes was, and
that old box of prophylactics! But damned if I couldn't find the registration.
"Uh—I can't find it, but it's my
car, honest. I mean, it was a gift to me, but it's been paid for, it's not
stolen or anything. I can probably find it in my penthouse. You wanna follow me
there? It's only two blocks aw—"
"Step out of the car, please."
Uh-oh. I felt my bowels burning. I had
two briefcases bulging with two shitloads of money in the back seat.
He poked his head into the car.
"What's in the briefcases?"
"Uh—I dunno. I'm doing an errand for
somebody."
"Yeah, I'll bet you dunno. Step
aside, please."
"Hey, you got a search
warrant?" I demanded.
But demanding a search warrant from a New
York City cop was like demanding a shot of Scotch from Satan in the middle of
Hell.
I didn't want to look. I turned my head
and flattened my palms on the roof of the car, like I was being searched. I
heard the clicks as he sprang the latches and his not-so-surprised
"mm-hmmm" as he checked out the contents.
"Who you doing this errand for,
sonny boy?"
What was with the "sonny boy"?
He wasn't much older than me. I knew he just wanted to put me down. Screw that.
I've been called a lot worse by much better cops than him. He obviously didn't
know who I was. "Uh—I'd better get a lawyer or something."
"You'd better come with me."
"Look, uh—you wanna just take a few
bills outta there and forget it?” I asked, real generously. “I mean, uh—we're
all in this mess together, ya know—"
"Bribing an officer of the law is a
very serious offense, sonny boy. You'll have to come with me. Park your car
there, please."
"Here? But there's a hydrant here.
I'll get a ticket."
I CONSIDERED THESE TITLES BEFORE I CHOSE
BOOTLEG BROADWAY (feel free to use any of these if you’re writing a book set
during Prohibition or the Depression—it was a tough decision)
Headin' for Better Times
How Strange
If It Ain't Love
If I Had You
Never Let the Same Bee Sting
You Twice
Opus One
PA6-5000
Puttin on the Ritz
Say it Isn't So
See if I'll Care
Smile
