“Good afternoon, dear listeners, this is your Sweetheart Annie…”

I forced the words out, aiming for sugary warmth into the battered microphone, fighting the urge to gag. Outside, New York sweltered under the afternoon sun, a cocktail of jazz and garbage stinging the air. And here I sat, Annabelle Smith, in a broadcast booth smaller than my rented closet, playing the city’s most beloved agony aunt.

“Today, Annie wants to share a little poem about hope…” Reciting lines I didn’t believe myself, bile rose in my throat. Hope? In 1920s New York, especially for a pauper like me, hope was scarcer than pre-Prohibition whiskey. My hope was stretching K’s latest gift to cover Tim’s medicine *and* maybe scoring some bread on credit tonight.

During a break, the familiar knock – Billy, the station gofer. He poked his head in, handing me the small, elegant box and the telegram. “From ‘Mr. K,’ Miss Annie.” He winked, his tone conspiratorial.

Knight K again. Punctual as a ghost, showering me with gifts that made my teeth ache with their value, accompanied by oddly formal, yet warm, telegrams. This time, the diamond bird brooch – worth more than my monthly salary. And that telegram… *Nightingale*.

My heart hammered. A coincidence? Or… no, impossible. Who would connect the syrupy Sweetheart Annie with the sharp-tongued “Nightingale” holding court in some grimy garage? I clutched the cool metal, a storm brewing inside. Who *was* this K? A lonely old man with too much money? Some creep spying on my life? Whoever he was, his money was real. This anonymous generosity was one of the few lifelines keeping Tim alive.

“…Thank you for tuning in. Sweetheart Annie looks forward to seeing you tomorrow, same time.” The moment the microphone went dead, the sweet mask dissolved from my face. I rubbed my aching jaw, grabbing the stack of bills from the desk. Rent, electricity, medicine… each figure a knife twisting in my gut. The diamond brooch suddenly felt heavy as lead. I tucked it deep into my purse’s lining. Maybe it *would* buy Tim his next month’s miracle drug.

Stepping out of the station, the sunlight blinded me. New York. Glittering, heartless beast. By day, the adored Sweetheart Annie. By night… well, night was the real battlefield. I pulled my threadbare coat tighter and headed home, steps heavy, but eyes fierce. For Tim, I’d do more than play Annie. I’d dance with the devil himself if I had to.

Night fell like thick black velvet, smothering the city’s daytime glitz. Back in my single-window room, the cheap “Sweetheart Annie” dress came off, replaced by baggy men’s work trousers, a dark shirt, hair ruthlessly tied back, face hidden under an old newsboy cap. The mirror showed a blurred, androgynous figure. Perfect.

Through grimy alleys, dodging the yellow beams of patrolling cops, I reached an unassuming iron door. Three rhythmic knocks. It creaked open, unleashing a blast of gasoline, oil, and cheap cigarette smoke. The roar of engines and drunken shouts swallowed me whole.

“Yo, Nightingale’s here!” a greasy voice called out. I ignored it, pushing deeper inside.

The dim warehouse flickered under weak bulbs, illuminating monstrously modified cars in the center space. The air crackled with adrenaline and danger. Men in oil-stained overalls argued over engines. In a corner, bootleg liquor changed hands. This was a lawless pocket, a hothouse of speed and desperation. And it was my stage.

“Annie! Finally!” Finn O’Connor, my childhood friend from the Brooklyn streets, pushed through the crowd. Short, wiry, with a perpetually defiant look, only the worry in his blue eyes betrayed his soft spot. A top-notch mechanic, he was one of the few who knew my secret.

“Anything worth looking at tonight?” I kept my voice low, rougher than Annie’s.

“That red ‘Lightning’ over there,” Finn jerked his chin. “Owner’s bragging about the new carburetor.” He nodded towards another car. “And that black beast, ‘The Ghost’. Heard it’s from Long Island. Engine sounds… off. Can’t place it.”

I nodded, walking towards the modified Ford Model T dubbed ‘Lightning’. The owner, a burly man with a face like hammered meat, was loudly boasting. I circled the car, bent low, listening to the idling engine, sniffing the exhaust.

“Intake manifold’s leaking air,” I stated coolly, my voice cutting through the nearby chatter. “And that carburetor’s tuned way too rich. Might jump off the line, but it’ll choke at high speed. Wanna win money? Bet against it, unless the other guy’s driving a horse cart.”

Silence fell. All eyes snapped to me. The owner flushed crimson. “What the hell do you know, girl… uh, kid…” My disguise confused him.

“I don’t know ‘hell’,” I looked up, my eyes sharp under the cap’s brim, dripping scorn. “But I know this.” I pointed at the trembling engine. “Your ‘Lightning’ sounds more like an asthmatic old man. All show, no go. Betting on it? Might as well toss your cash in the Hudson.”

A ripple of muffled laughter went through the crowd. The burly owner clenched his fists but didn’t move. The ‘Nightingale’ moniker carried weight here – earned not by muscle, but by uncanny mechanical instinct. Respect, yes. But it also made enemies.

Finn clapped my shoulder, whispering, “Easy, Annie. Lay low tonight. Word is, things are getting tense. That guy, Maloney? He’s expanding his turf.”

Maloney? The small-time gangster running half the East Side’s underground gambling? My stomach tightened. This gig was getting hotter than a faulty exhaust pipe.

Two AM. Exhausted, reeking of fumes, I pushed open my creaking door. By the dim kerosene lamp, I saw Tim curled on the sofa bed, his small frame wracked by violent coughs. His face was pale, flushed with fever, each breath a ragged whistle.

“Annie… sis…” He barely managed a whisper.

“Shh, don’t talk. Sleep.” I rushed over, felt his forehead. Burning hot. Ice gripped my heart. Playing hope’s angel by day, venomous expert by night – and I couldn’t even protect my own brother.

Dr. Fitzgerald came the next morning. His gentle face was grim after examining Tim. He pulled me outside.

“Annabelle, it’s not good.” He rubbed his tired eyes. “The lung infection is worsening. New York’s damp air is poison to him. That Swiss sanatorium I mentioned? It’s his only real chance now.”

“The cost…” The word scraped my dry throat.

“I know it’s difficult,” he sighed. “But we can’t wait any longer. A month, Annabelle. *Maybe* less. If he’s not on his way by then, I1920s fear…” He didn’t finish, but his heavy gaze said everything.

One month. A death sentence hanging over us. I clutched the new prescription, its price searing my eyes. I did the math – K’s contributions, my day and night earnings, minus living costs and past debts… I was oceans away from the Swiss fees.

Despair washed over me as I watched Tim sleep, his brow furrowed in pain. Sweetheart Annie’s salary was a pittance. Nightingale’s earnings were erratic, dangerous, and making enemies like last night’s ‘Lightning’ owner.

I couldn’t just wait. I needed a windfall. Fast.

Finn mentioned Maloney… high-risk, high-reward prediction games…

My fists clenched. Every shallow breath Tim took screamed urgency.

To hell with caution. To hell with the risk. For Tim, I’d walk through fire.