Too BAD
M anhattan, 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
