Word on the Street c

As he reached the rendezvous point, Eugene’s eyes scanned the area for any signs of the bartender’s contact. His hand instinctively reached for the concealed firearm holstered beneath his coat, a silent reminder of the dangers that awaited him. This was no place for the faint of heart.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness, stepping into the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. He approached Eugene cautiously, his eyes betraying a lifetime of secrets.

“You Leftowicz?” the man asked in a gravelly voice.

Eugene nodded, his gaze steady. “I am. Need to find Franky ‘The Fist’ Martino. Time is running out, and a woman’s life hangs in the balance.”

The man’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Follow me,” he said, leading Eugene through a maze of narrow alleyways and hidden passages. The scent of decay and desperation intensified as they ventured deeper into the dockside underworld.

Finally, they arrived at a weather-worn building on Barrow Street, its facade was obscured by the darkness. The contact turned to Eugene, his eyes gleaming with a mix of caution and determination. He whispered, “This former blacksmith’s shop is now a speakeasy named Chumley’s, it fronts on 86 Bedford Street. Knock three times on the door. When the doorman opens the sliding peephole whisper Church on Sunday. That should get you in. Franky’s inside. Be careful, Leftowicz, you could be walking into a deathtrap.”

“Eugene’s grip tightened on the handle of his trusty revolver moving it to his coat pocket, his heart pounding in anticipation. He thanked the contact for his help and slipped him a wad of bills before disappearing into the depths of the building, ready to confront the notorious Franky “The Fist” Martino.

Inside, the air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, and tension. Covering the walls were portraits of writers including Ernest Hemmingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and J.D. Salinger. The sound of muffled voices and the clinking of glasses echoed through the dimly lit space. Eugene’s veiled eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of his target. And there, in a secluded corner, he spotted him—Franky, surrounded by his loyal henchmen, exuding an aura of arrogance and menace.

With calculated steps, Eugene approached the table, his gaze locked on Franky. The room fell silent, the weight of their confrontation palpable. The tension crackled in the air like electricity, as if the entire city held its breath, awaiting the outcome.

Eugene spoke with a firmness that echoed through the room, “Franky Martino, I have got some questions for you, and I expect answers. Before you start crackin’ wise, there’s a gat in my pocket aimed at you. I’m too close to miss so if you don’t want them to be pickin’ lead out of your liver, you’ll tell me what I want to know. Looking for a dame who goes by the name of Amelia Monroe. Word on the street is that she was last seen with you. Now, she is missing, and I intend to find her. Have a look at this snap.”

Franky’s laughter filled the space, a chilling sound that sent shivers down the spines of those present. “You think you can intimidate me, Leftowicz? You got guts coming in here, but you may be going out in a body bag. Hey, I may remember that broad. Sweet chick, a bit naive but she was in one piece when she left our table. You may want to check with Jimmy “Three Fingers” Moretti. I saw him sniffing around her at closing time. So, before you think about pumping lead, have a seat. I could maybe use somebody like you.”

“I am not for hire to the likes of you, Franky. I’m strictly on the up and up. Going to walk out backwards now, this heater stays aimed at you.”

While keeping an eye on Franky, Eugene stopped at the bar to talk to the bartender. He placed a C-note on the counter and kept his fingers on it. The bartender approached and said, “Are you planning to buy a round for the house?”

“What I want to buy isn’t rotgut, it’s information. Have you seen the girl in this snapshot? Goes by Amelia Monroe. Franky said he saw her with Gianni ‘Three Fingers’”

“She’s a looker. May have seen her here with Gianni. Let me check with the other bartender. He says she was with Gianni. He didn’t see them leave. Gianni attracts flappers like shit attracts flies. With his fancy clothes, he’s as popular as musicians with Duke Ellington or Paul Whiteman. He may have tried to impress her with the hidden bookcase passageway and the tunnel downstairs. From there they could have gone to the house at 17 Grove Street adjacent to the residence at 100 Bedford. It may even be linked to the Underground Railroad.”

“Show me the tunnel.”

“Sure, follow me.”

The staircase was rickety, and the tunnel was rough like a mine shaft. The bartender said, “I have to get back upstairs, but you can have a look around. Hope you find your girl.”

Eugene followed the tunnel to a mechanical room and then through a panel that opened into the library at 17 Grove Street. He also found a wine room that stored 500 bottles. He’d seen enough for one day. He would come back tomorrow with his partner Paddy Murphy.

…

Sample my books for free — To date, $1945.00 has been donated to the homeless

Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
http://buff.ly/1SGzGCY ($2.99 Download)
http://buff.ly/1qLHptc ($2.99 Download)
https://buff.ly/2lUfp6Q ($2.99 Download)
https://buff.ly/2Gkoyxj ($2.99 Download)

They Call Me Red:
https://buff.ly/2GJSDsG ($2.99 Download)

Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
https://buff.ly/3kP2pMZ ($2.99 Download)

Podcasts:
http://buff.ly/1Pxlf9p Sara Troy:  Self-Discovery Media
http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project