An Hour in the Den

The rain pours on a corrupted city, and only one detective shows any sign of decency. His search for his sister leads him to a speakeasy with some questionable characters.

The rain had slowed to an inconsistent drizzle. That was honestly the best thing I could say about the night. No, it wasn’t very cheerful. Not that many nights in the accursed city are cheerful anymore, but this one was particularly bleak.

 

My partner, if that is what you want to call that scum, was probably at The Harem. If you asked his wife, she would say he was out with friends. Poor girl doesn’t know how right she is. O’Brian’s affection for The Harem is more than skin deep. So often our investigations start with a visit to the showgirls for the news on the street. And so often I see one of Petrosino’s generals making his rounds: men who earn their living by being the boogie men at night and the damn apostles at day. O’Brian is in Petrosino’s pockets, but the question is how deep.

 

And me? Well, I’m not one to let a good night go to waste. It’s been almost a month since Angeline’s disappearance. The department might have abandoned the case, but I haven’t. I’m not about to forget my sister, no matter how deep this goes.

 

All this brings me to the alley between Solids and Stripes and the extremely popular, late-night Laundromat. Lying face first in the pavement is my contact: young PI named John Beckett. He was soaked more in the rain than his blood, but there was a trail still running down to the garbage. He must have found some answers. I needed to know what they were.

 

I crouched down close to the body. The scent of dampness kept the stench of his rotting away. But I got close to his gaping mouth. No air, but I picked up the faint smell of Mr. Daniels. That’s one place the rain and death had not gotten to yet.

 

I left the body where it lay. With any luck, I will find it tomorrow when I am back on duty, and no cops will get to it tonight. Last thing we need is for another body to float downriver.

 

My destination: the Laundromat. As I entered, there was that annoying noise of a bell tingling, like a watch fairy warning everyone that the big, bad police had arrived. Only one man was in the dimly lit front room, but he was big enough for two. His was bald, shaved rather, with arms the size of our last Thanksgiving turkey. He sported some Chinese characters inked on his arm, and a scowl sculpted on his face.

 

“You lost, officer?” he growled like any good guard dog.

 

“Just looking for my good friend, Jackie D.” I walked behind the counter and headed for the employee only door. The big dog glared at me the whole time, but did not bite.

 

On the other side of the door, I descended a flight of steps into the basement. Already I could hear the sound of the piano and obnoxious laughter of half the so-called honest men in the neighborhood.

 

In the heart of darkness, I found a dimly lit room with a thick cloud of smoke playing even more havoc with the lighting. With the exception of the stage, its accompanied piano, and the bar across from it, the only lighting came from small lamps on each table. The tables themselves were arranged in a delicate maze around the room and in repurposed alcoves along the wall. Bodies amassed at these tables in ranks of class. Eternally dirty dock workers drank at one table, while city councilmen and their wives chatted at another. Young socialites leaned against the bar displaying their meticulously created curves, while a few seats away barflies drowned in their own depression. Nobody was on the stage, but the organist from St. Paul’s was busy dancing his fingers on the keys.

 

I stood in the door, getting a feel for the hole I had crawled into. Through the tobacco fog, I saw the swaying hips of a brunette waitress coming to greet me. “Well hello, Artie.”

 

“As I live and breathe, the beautiful Kathleen.” Kat was a standup gal. I have known her for going on ten years. She lived next door to me in my first apartment on 19^th. Stress had gotten to her once pristine face. A few choice lines have dashed any hope that she would be able to perform on stage. Of course, she never wanted the lights and glamour of a public life. She was a working girl, and proud of it. “What are you doing in a place like this? I can’t protect you if the commissioner finds this little secret.”

 

“Relax, detective.” She smiled at me, that knowing smile that tries to shame me for not arresting every criminal in the joint. “The honorable Commissioner Lancaster is backstage visiting with our eleven o’clock showgirl.” She shot a quick glance at the empty stage before looking back at me with that same smile. “How about I find you a seat? I’ll join you a bit. You want anything?”

 

“I’m good, hun. Thanks.”

 

She found us a table in an alcove in the back. It was the only table in the place without a view of the stage. I guess it was a closet back when this was just a Laundromat. It took Kat over ten minutes before she managed to sneak away to our hiding place. She had a tall mug with a foamy head for herself and another one with questionable water.

 

“I thought you might want at least this. So, what brings you to our little slice of heaven?”

 

I drank from the water before recounting my night. It had been rough. When I arrived at the warehouse of Neptune’s Shipping, I found the place already deserted. No inventory. No staff. Nothing. Even the office had been emptied out. A barrel of ashes and the faint smell of kerosene was all that remained of any paperwork. I should have pressed that slimy deckhand harder. Little b*****d must have ratted me out. Just when I thought the night was going to be a bust, I got a call from Beckett. Said he knew where I could find one of Petrosino’s men: the one that rules the docks. We set up a meeting place, but he didn’t show. I waited for nearly half an hour before I started doing some investigation on my own. That’s when I found the drunken fool lying in his own blood not far from where we were supposed to meet.

 

“You see him in here? Beckett? Young guy. Black hair. Clean shaven.”

 

“Big Adam’s apple? Eyes like a deer?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him. Did he talk to anybody? Did you see him leave with someone?”

 

“He came in here a little after ten. Barbara was already on stage but I think it was still her first song. He sat at the bar for a while, talking with the Old General for some time. I guess he was talking loudly enough, because the man on the other side of him got up and went to talk with Ricardo.”

 

“Who’s Ricardo?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure. The girls all know him and call him by name, but I’ve never seen him with any of them. He is in here a lot, though. I’m told not to charge him for anything, not that he ever drinks.”

 

“You think he is one of Petrosino’s men?”

 

“Could be. He hardly talks with anyone though. For a long time after I started, I actually assumed he worked here. Like a second bouncer or something.”

 

“So the man at the bar goes and speaks with Ricardo, presumably about Beckett. Then what happens?”

 

“Ricardo goes and sits with him at the bar. The two talk for a while. Ricardo even orders him a drink. I had to run some dishes back, and when I returned, they were both gone. Ricardo came back after the show.”

 

“Is he still here now?”

 

“Yeah. That’s him.” Kat pointed to a tall Italian sitting at a table near the steps. There was only one other person at the table: a scrawny guy bordering on midget height who appeared to be talking incessantly.

 

“Who’s the other guy?”

 

“I don’t know. Ricardo always sits at a different table. I don’t think he even knows the guy.”

 

The music paused as the room erupted into applause. The scrawny guy stood up and cheered, as did a few other men. Then a milky soft voice thanked them for waiting. I guess Lancaster was finished with his fun.

 

“I’ll have to make sure to introduce myself before he ducks out.”

 

I started to worm out of the booth, but Kat put her hand on mine. I turned to her to see her smile had since faded to a stoic stare. Her eyes peered into mine, betraying her fear that her steady hand did not.

 

“Artie, I’m worried you’re losing your head. I know what your sister means to you, but you’re forgetting about yourself. I just don’t want you to find her in some shallow grave before they bury you too. I don’t want to spend night after night searching for you then.”

 

“You won’t, hun. I promise. If my sister is indeed in some shallow hole in the ground, then I’m going to bury her killers so deep I’ll hand the bodies to the devil himself.”

 

With that promise, I got out of the alcove and made my way to Ricardo’s table. The scrawny little man was busy watching the young blonde strut across the stage in a dress made out of diamonds. He was no longer speaking, but he was still mouthing sweet nothings to girl. Ricardo too had his eyes on her, but he wasn’t entranced. As I stepped up, he turned his glare to me.

 

“Ricardo?” I asked once I was standing over him.

 

“That’s me. You’re O’Brian’s partner, aren’t you?”

 

“You know O’Brian?”

 

“We travel in the same circles.”

 

“Clearly not the police circles. I have to say, your reputation is pretty quiet.”

 

“This place is pretty quiet.”

 

He turned in his seat, crossing his legs. As he did so, he bumped the table with a barely audible thud over the blonde’s singing. The scrawny guy repositioned, too. He leaned forward and put his hands on his hips as he spread his legs. He was still mouthing to the showgirl, almost willing her to come to him.

 

“Do you own the joint?”

 

“Me? No. I’m not even a manager. I just make sure no cops come in here without dirtying their hand. Hard to point fingers when it’s got red on them, too.”

 

“So who is the owner?”

 

“Why, he is.” Ricardo pointed casually to the scrawny man about to drool on his own crotch.

 

“He is?”

 

“I am.” The little guy had a voice scratched from years of cigarettes. “Want to come to my office and have a little chat?” Only then did he turn around. His eyes seemed sunken into his skull, and his face was as emotionless as a grave.

 

I eyed the room. Although most were busy gawking at the young singer, a few particularly brutish men at the corner of the bar were keeping a trained eye on our conversation. “I would love that.”

 

He coughed a command to follow him as he got up. We made our way around the tables so as not to interrupt their sight of the stage. As we passed the corner where the brutish men stood, they gave me the stink eye but made no moves. The scrawny man walked past the pianist and through the door guarding the backstage. I followed him through the miniature maze of hallways freshly dug into the ground. These rooms clearly were new to the basement’s design. The little man opened a door and ascended the steps. Soon, we were back outside in a twin alley to the one Beckett was sleeping in. The rain had picked up again.

 

“This is your office?”

 

“Yes, sir! The office of Mr. Bonaduce. Is it not glamorous enough for your sophisticated tastes?” He spoke his words well, but I could tell it was a strain on his mind to not slip into an accent.

 

“It’s fine. I just think you might have a leak. I’m here to talk with you about a Mr. John Beckett. Apparently he visited your establishment this evening before talking to our friend Ricardo.”

 

“A missing link in your puzzle, detective?”

 

“Something like that. Who’s Ricardo? What does he really do here?”

 

“He finds pleasurable company for any officers that visit our little watering hole. And PIs, too.” Here he grinned. Even in the dark night, with only the occasional passing headlights and the streetlamps from around the corner, I could see his near-toothless smile.

 

“Who’s the real manager?” The so-called Bonaduce was standing in the middle of the alley, hands on hips again. I made sure I was squared off against him.

 

“What? Just because I have no tie?”

 

“Where is Angeline!” I shouted at him over the rain.

 

His response was a lunging stab. He had produced a shiv from his waist and was using it to lead his charge. I jumped back and to the right, carefully avoiding his blade. This wasn’t the first time I had to put my boxing skills to the test. I moved to pop him with my right, but the scum ducked so he was even smaller than usual. I wasn’t used to fighting men the size of kids.

 

I continued to dodge and weave his attacks. He was fast with his knife, I’ll give him that. The alley didn’t offer much room to maneuver, either. To make matters worse, I never got a good hit on him. He was too low and I couldn’t time my punches just right.

 

I stepped back and my foot plunged into a puddle. The next time he lunged, I didn’t jump out of the way. I moved aside and caught him by the arm. With a good pull, I threw him forward. He slipped on the wet pavement or tripped on the hole at the bottom of the puddle. Whatever happened to him, he flew to the ground. I heard the clang of the blade hitting the alley, but he kept his grip on it. As he moved to stand up, I slugged him with my left. Knocking a person back down was a move I picked up on the beat.

 

I knocked his shiv away before kicking him onto his back. “Where is Angeline?” I was standing over him, shouting at the stunned little killer.

 

“I don’t know who that is.”

 

“Then I won’t know who broke all your dirty fingers. Try using even a spoon then.” I punched him across his nose to keep him down a bit longer. For added measure, I put my one leg to stand on his right hand. “Now tell me, where is Angeline?”

 

“I told you I don’t know! I’m not in the loop. That’s not my job.”

 

“And what is your job? Certainly not owner. ‘Pleasurable company’ for people asking too many questions? Did you kill Beckett?”

 

He stared up at me through squinted eyes. Rain was still pouring on his face, and my last punch left a cut on the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

 

“You killed him?”

 

“I said yes. He was talking too much about Zabat.”

 

“Zabat?”

 

“Yeah. He’s one of Petrosino’s guys.”

 

“Keeps his eyes on the docks?”

 

“Right. But it’s not him that’s the problem. It’s his cousin: a different Zabat. He’s the one been kidnapping dames. Guess I should have silenced that kid sooner.”

 

“No. Not everyone is as dumb as you.”

 

“You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

 

That’s when kicked me in the side. I lost my balance, and he seized the opportunity to scramble to his shiv. As he stood up to take me out, I landed an uppercut on his chin. Knocked his lights clean out.

 

I looked down at his bleeding face soaking in the rain. One more hour wasted with the scum of this city. But at least now I have a lead. I’m one step closer to Angeline.

 

Zabat.

 

I’m coming for you, you b*****d. If you laid even a hair on her, I’ll make sure a bloody face is the least of your concerns.

Author's Note

This is part of a writing series and meant to act like a part in a larger, unwritten story. The topic for this piece was "noir", so I am most interested in how it fits in the genre. Is there enough mystery to be enticing? Do the characters feel authentic? Does the ending feel too rushed?