Word on the Street b

The dame who waltzed into his office that day was a real knockout, the kind that made fellas forget their own names. She was draped in a red dress clingin’ to her like a second skin. Introducin’ herself as Evelyn Monroe, she purred, “I need your help, Mr. Leftowicz,” desperation tainting her voice. “My sister Amelia has gone missing. Reckon she’s tangled up with bootleggers and mobsters.”

“Why do ya think she’s involved with bootleggers and mobsters?”

“She’s a young, impressionable college gal aimin’ to be a writer. All she talked about was bootleggers and mobsters. I’m thinkin’ she got too close to some dangerous characters. Maybe they mistook her curiosity for bein’ a snitch for the coppers. I ain’t sure, just guessin’. That’s the best I got.”

Eugene leaned back, eyein’ her closely, his mind filled with thoughts of danger and intrigue.  He’d learned the hard way not to trust nobody in this town, especially not a dame oozin’ trouble like a leaky faucet. But there was somethin’ ‘bout her, something tuggin’ at his conscience like a forgotten memory.

“I don’t come cheap, sweetheart,” he warned his voice a low rumble that filled the room. “And I ain’t in the habit of savin’ dames in distress.”

Evelyn reached into her purse pullin’ out a thick wad of bills and a snapshot of Amelia, droppin’ ‘em onto his desk with a thud. “Money ain’t no problem,” she whispered, her peepers pleading. “Please, Mr. Leftowicz, dig into what Amelia’s caught up in. I’m scared for her life.”

Eugene’s determination wavered as he eyeballed the dough. He knew he should give her the brush-off, walk away from this tangled web of lies and danger. But the allure of the chase, the chance to uncover the truth in a city built on deceit, was too strong to resist.

“Alright, doll,” he gave in, stashin’ the dough. “Consider me on the job. But remember, the truth can be a risky business. You ready for what we might dig up?”

Evelyn’s lips formed a sad smile, her eyes a mix of fear and grit. “I’m ready for anything, Mr. Leftowicz. Long as it brings back my sister no matter the cost.”

With that, Eugene began his descent into the underbelly of the city, a world fueled by bootleg spirits and streets stained with blood.  It was the Prohibition era, when the law had no sway over the black market thriving beneath the surface. Gangsters, bootleggers, and crooked cops ruled the roost.

His first stop was a seedy, unnamed joint on the outskirts of town. The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke, hooch and desperation. Eugene approached the barkeep, a grizzled fella with eyes that had seen more than they cared to recall.

“Soda, and an empty shot glass,” Eugene muttered, slidin’ a photo and some greenbacks across the sticky counter. “And information, this gal goes by the name of Amelia Monroe.”

The barkeep filled a glass from the soda fountain and slid it over, along with an empty shot glass. “The mug looks familiar, but I can’t rightly say.”

Eugene pulled a silver flask from his pocket, filled the shot glass and spiked his soda. “Word on the street is that Amelia Monroe was last seen jawin’ with Franky ‘The Fist’ Martino. Now, she’s gone, and I aim to find her.”

“There was a dame lookin’ like the one in the picture, seen her chattin’ up with Franky the last time I laid eyes on him. They seemed friendly, had a few drinks then I lost sight of ‘em. Can’t say if they skipped out together. I didn’t pay much mind. People come and people go, pal. That’s the life of a barkeep. But if the gal the picture was with Franky, that spells trouble. He’s a dangerous piece of work. You sure you wanna tangle with him and his gang of thugs?”

“That’s what I’m set on doin’. Her sister would be busted up if I can not find Amelia or find out what’s happened to her. I do not know if she’s mixed up with Franky or if she caught wind of his plans. Either way, she is in deep water.”

“I know a guy,” the barkeep murmured, “Got a hideout near the docks. If anyone knows where to find Franky, it is him. He swings by here every night. Maybe for a bit more green, I could give him a ring and set up a meetin’. Eugene nodded, grateful for the barkeep’s help. He downed the drink, feeling the burn fueling his determination. The name Franky “The Fist” Martino was common knowledge on the streets. A ruthless enforcer with a reputation for violence, Franky had his fingers in every shady operation in the city.

As Eugene left the dimly lit joint, he knew he had to act fast. The city’s clock was ticking, and each passing moment brought Amelia Monroe closer to the edge of danger. The docks were a treacherous place, a labyrinth of shipping crates and clandestine dealings. But Eugene had never been one to shy away from danger.

The scent of saltwater and industry hung heavy in the air, mingling with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shoreline and foghorns in the distance. The moon cast a pale glow upon the desolate streets, illuminating the path that lay ahead.

…

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