Stevie Ray Vaughan and Jeff Healy

Two rock heroes who died much too soon.

Jeff Healey’s life story is both inspiring and tragic. Despite losing his sight at a young age, he became a phenomenal guitarist, developing a unique style that captivated audiences. His band’s success and collaborations with legendary musicians like George Harrison and Eric Clapton speak volumes about his talent and influence. It’s a shame that such a talented individual was taken from us at such a young age.

 

Justice for Sonny Boy

Tags

African American, Chicago Blues, Jim Crow, racism, segregation, The Great Migration

Available on Amazon at:   http://tinyurl.com/2s4ab6a2

Continued from:  https://tinyurl.com/65b8ed74

~~~

“Well, maybe Molly was onto something with that Palmer House booking but I haven’t got a gripe with folks of color.”

“Eugene, it’s not about you; it’s about respecting the folks in this neighborhood. We better tread lightly; outsiders might not be welcomed with open arms.”

“Alright, Murph, I messed up good. We tried to dodge crime outfits back in New York, and here I’ve led us right into the lion’s den.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Eugene, let’s make the best of a bad situation. Who knows, we might just take a liking to Chicago.”

“Okay, if the room isn’t up to snuff, we can always make a move. It might not be as dire as you figure.”

We check in at the hotel, the grand lobby is adorned with opulent chandeliers and velvet drapes. It seems to whisper secrets of bygone eras. We make sure our rooms are far from Capone’s and hidden from any potential drive-by shooters. The desk clerk assures us that having Al Capone around makes this place the safest joint in town.

We’re told to ignore the well-armed torpedoes in the lobby pretending to read newspapers when in fact these men are constantly casing the lobby for any threat against ‘Snorky’ Capone’s preferred nickname.

It’s rumored that Louie, Little New York Campagna, another one of Capone’s favorite bodyguards, sleeps on a cot beside Al’s suite door at night with two automatics at the ready to protect the Big One.

 (to be continued…)

Justice for Sonny Boy

Tags

African American, Chicago Blues, Jim Crow, racism, segregation, The Great Migration

Available on Amazon at:   http://tinyurl.com/2s4ab6a2

 

Introduction

In the 1940s, Chicago was a city on edge. African American newcomers from the South, among them blues musicians, came seeking liberty, work, and housing. Black individuals were confined to a narrow area, merely seven blocks in breadth and thirty blocks in length, an area known as the Black Belt or Bronzeville.

 

Prologue

Sonny Boy Williamson’s impact on the blues harmonica cannot be overstated. Often hailed as the father of modern blues harp, he was not only widely heard but also deeply influential, shaping the sound of his generation and beyond. His songs, including the enduring “Good Morning, School Girl” and “Stop Breaking Down,” remain beloved classics that capture the essence of the blues. He was robbed and murdered on the streets of Chicago in 1948 at the age of 34. A tragic loss for the music world, but his legacy lives on through his timeless music.

 

Justice for Sonny Boy

The train ride is smooth rolling. Miles and miles of miles and miles. It feels good getting away from the intrigue surrounding the death of our former employer, Dutch Schultz. The Mafia isn’t interested in explanations. In Chicago, we aim to keep a low profile. There’s nobody here who can put a finger on us like there is in New York. In the Windy City, we aim to do some sniffing around for any Mafia scuttlebutt.

“Hey, Murphy, wake up! Do you hear that whistle blowing, we’re steaming into Chicago, the Heart of America.” I say as we rub the sleep from our eyes. We chowed down in the dining car an hour ago, but after riding the rails for twenty-three hours straight, we’re both feeling bushed.

“We can grab a cab to the Lexington Hotel and catch some Z’s. Molly had us set up at the Palmer House, but this one’s easier on the wallet.”

“Is that Lexington joint the big one over on South Michigan at East Cermak Road?” Murphy asks.

“Yeah, I reckon that’s the address they fed me. Why?” I reply.

“Eugene, you’re kidding me, right?”

“Why would I jest? I saw a picture of the place in the newspaper. Looks swell, and the desk jockey who took our reservation said it has ten floors, four hundred rooms, and it’s a stone’s throw from downtown. What’s wrong with that?”

“Did that desk jockey bother to mention that the Lexington is known as Capone’s Castle? He’s got fifty rooms rented on the fourth and fifth floors, surrounded by thirty Italian goons.

“When Capone holed up at the Hawthorne Hotel, they slapped bulletproof steel shutters on his windows. The man survived a ten-car drive-by shooting when his enemies peppered the place with over a thousand rounds from Thompson submachine guns. We might not be so lucky.”

“I guess trying to save a few bucks wasn’t the brightest idea. Now I get why the room rates were a steal.”

“Another thing, Eugene, we’ll be straddling the Black Belt, or Bronzeville as they call it here, where a quarter of a million folks migrated from down South to dodge beatings and lynchings.”

“You reckon that’s an issue?”

“We’re not black, and we’re not bronze, Eugene. If you hoped we’d blend in, that ship ain’t sailing. There were the race riots in ’19, Red Summer, they called it because of all the blood. White folks high-tailed it out of here. Happened fifteen years back but left its scars.”

“How did you learn all this?”

“I was born here.”

(Continued at: https://tinyurl.com/2afrp6wf

Private Eye

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir, gangsters, mafia, mobsters, prohibition, rum running

https://buff.ly/45LWrTc

Robbery

Hey, catch that jerk! He just swiped my hard-earned dough! And watch out, he’s packin’ a shiv!” bellowed Luigi, from the brightly lit bodega on the corner.

The crook bolted down the sidewalk, desperately trying to evade capture. But he couldn’t escape the watchful eyes of a shadowy figure leaning against a lamppost. In one swift motion, a burly forearm materialized from the darkness and clotheslined the thief’s windpipe, sending him crashing to the ground like a sack of flour.

Private Eye Eugene Leftkowicz, a man of few words but swift actions, slapped the cold steel of handcuffs onto the unconscious criminal and firmly escorted him back to the scene of his crime. “Make the call to the bulls, Luigi. They better have a cozy cell waiting for this sorry excuse of a human being.”

“Thank you, thank you!” exclaimed Luigi, his voice laced with gratitude and relief. “He cleaned out my cash register, Eugene. You’re a godsend, ya know? Times are tough, and I can’t afford to take a hit like that.”

“Just doing what I do best, Luigi. Just doing what I do best,” Eugene responded coolly, his eyes scanning the room. “I’ll be expecting a fresh donut and a piping hot cup of joe tomorrow morning’. Don’t let me down.”

“You got it, Mr. Leftkowicz,” Luigi assured him, a newfound respect in his voice.

With the sound of sirens growing louder in the distance, Eugene patiently waited for the arrival of the boys in blue. He provided his statement, every word calculated and precise, before gliding out of the bodega with a purposeful stride. The weight of satisfaction settled upon his broad shoulders as he made his way back home, knowing he had utilized his skills to prevent a major blow to his pal Luigi’s livelihood. Justice had been served, at least for tonight.

 

Private Eye: 11

‘Thunder’ behind the wheel and ‘Reaper’, Eugene and Murphy ridin’ shotgun, headin’ back to the dock on Otten’s Bay. Just as they near the Jersey Shore, ‘Thunder’ eases up on the throttle. “Looks like we got some trouble brewin’ up ahead. There’s a strange boat lurkin’ ’round the bay entrance. I’ll grab my telescope for a closer look. I reckon I recognize some faces from the newspapers. I’d say their names but that might bring bad luck. It’s that damn Purple Gang. Known for raidin’ boats haulin’ back from Rum Row. Seems like they’ve spotted us and are givin’ chase. Hold tight, folks. We’re makin’ a full-speed dash out to sea. Let’s see what kinda boat they got.”

The pursuit went on for ’bout half an hour, but ‘Thunder’ couldn’t shake off the other boat. As it draws closer, shots ring out, aimed at our lead vessel. Eugene and Murphy fire back. ‘Thunder’ tells ‘Reaper’, “Take the wheel and start zig-zaggin’, so they can’t line up a clear shot. I gotta fetch somethin’ from below deck.”

“Don’t dawdle too long. These fellas ain’t actin’ too friendly.”

‘Thunder’ returns topside, brandishin’ a Thompson sub-machine gun. “Seems like these jokers think they’re dealin’ with a buncha rookies. Make some room for me at the rear. Give ’em a taste of their own medicine.”

Both boats speedin’ along, ridin’ low at the stern and high at the bow. ‘Thunder’ unleashes a barrage of bullets towards the approachin’ boat’s bow. “They’ll be takin’ on water real soon. That oughta slow ’em down.”

True to prediction, the boat begins to slow, and its passengers are spotted scramblin’ to bail out water. A chorus of curses fills the air.

‘Thunder’ steers his boat around and heads back towards the Jersey shore.

Visiting the Plaza Hotel

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir mystery, mobsters, private eye, prohibitiion, Prose, rumrunners, rumrunning

 

The sky was as gloomy as a funeral. Eugene was lost in thought as he stepped into his office. “Mornin’, Molly. See if you can get Evelyn Monroe on the blower. I got some news for her.”

“Yeah, Mr. Leftowicz, I’ll patch her through.” After a couple of minutes, she hollered, “Got her on the line. I’ll connect you.”

“Morning, Miss Monroe. Your sister and Jimmy Moretti have been cozyin’ up lately. Word is they were spotted at 27 Grove Street, and I stumbled upon a stash of dames’ threads in the crib out back. Found a bottle of Chanel Number 5 too. Was that your sister’s fragrance?”

“Yeah, it was, Mr. Leftowicz, but that perfume’s all the rage. I wear it myself.”

“I also got the duds. Want me to swing ’em over? Maybe they’ll tell us something’.”

“I’m crashin’ at the Plaza on West 58th Street. Know the joint?”

“Yeah, Miss Monroe, that’s a crib every Joe and his mother knows. I can be there in about twenty minutes if that suits ya.”

“Sure thing. I’ll be waitin’ for ya.”
Eugene and Paddy Murphy rolled up to the swanky Plaza Hotel. They strolled up to the front desk and told ’em they were rendezvousing with Evelyn Monroe. The desk jockey seemed doubtful but made a call.

“Miss Monroe, two gents are at the front desk. They say you’re expectin’ ’em. Should I send ’em up or give ’em the boot?”

“You can send ’em up.”

Miss Monroe’s waitin’ for you in room 511.”

Evelyn Monroe cracked open the door to room 511. “Afternoon, gents. I hope that bag you got has some good news. My mind’s been runnin’ wild with all sorts of notions.”

“These here are the duds we found at 100 Bedford Street. Look like somethin’ Amelia would own?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen her sportin’ these. And that shoppin’ bag’s from Bergdorf Goodman’s. It’s a swanky joint, not the kind a college kid would frequent.”

“Amelia seems to be kickin’ and jivin’. Want us to keep digging’?”

“Please, Mr. Leftowicz. I need to lay eyes on her myself and make sure everything’s hunky-dory. There’s somethin’ fishy about this whole shebang. Can’t believe she wouldn’t give me a holler to let me know where she’s at and when she’s comin’ back.”

“Alright, we’ll keep the case open and see what we can dig up. I got one question, though. Why me? You can hire any gumshoe in this city with your dough. What made you choose my crew?”

“I’m just passin’ through from Texas, and I don’t know nobody here to vouch for a P.I. So I checked out the New York Times and saw your ad. Said you were a ‘World-renowned Private Investigator’ offerin’ ‘Round-the-Clock Service.’ That grabbed my attention, so I gave your office a ring to set up a meet. Is that info on the level?”

“Yes, Miss Monroe, that’s all legit. If you’ll excuse us, we gotta track down your sister.”

As they stepped out of the hotel, Paddy asked, “Boss, you mentioned bein’ internationally known. That the real deal?”

“Paddy, I was fightin’ in the war. I was in Europe and met soldiers from all over the world. I am internationally known.”

“Okay, boss, that works for me.”

…

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Private Eye: 10

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir mystery, mobsters, private eye, prohibitiion, Prose, rumrunners, rumrunning

The first rays of the sun broke over the horizon, casting a fiery glow on the deck of the Adelaide like a burst of orange dynamite. The crew bustled with purpose, each member knowing their part in this intricate dance. A machine-gunner nestled behind sturdy sandbags, ready to defend our precious cargo. Passengers huddled below deck, confined for their own safety.

In a secluded corner, Pirate Jenny and Amelia exchanged hushed words, plotting the course of action for the day. Captain Jim, a seasoned sea dog, surveyed the labyrinthine cargo hold, calculating the most efficient method to unload and distribute the burlap sacks brimming with forbidden hooch to our eager buyers.

Tension gripped the air as supply ships maneuvered, vying for prime positions like sharks circling their prey. Go-fast boats, sleek and audacious, raced dangerously close to their chosen mother ships, desperate to secure their share of the illicit bounty. The clock ticked relentlessly, each passing moment increasing the stakes.

Then, a resounding foghorn shattered the stillness. Rope ladders were hastily thrown down to the waiting boats, and a swarm of eager customers, their eyes gleaming with anticipation, clambered aboard our vessels. Bargains were struck, prices negotiated, and quantities debated, as the raucous business of the black market unfolded before our eyes.

‘Thunder’ and his boat, both bearin’ his moniker, were right up front in the lineup. See, they had been trailin’ the Adelaide since the last raid by them Coast Guard fellas. Thunder hopped aboard and was greeted by Captain Jim, who then pointed him toward Pirate Jenny and Amelia.

“Ahoy, ladies! Looks like there be some changes in the wind. Jenny seems you got yourself a helper.”

“Indeed, ‘Thunder’. A helper, maybe even a replacement. We’ll see how the day unfolds. They say there’s nothin’ like learnin’ under fire, but we’re hopin’ for more learnin’ and less firefight.”

Amelia’s voice quivered, “Thunder, we got ya on the books for them 383 sacks of our finest scotch. Ain’t that right?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s the count. Me and ‘Reaper’ will have ’em loaded and set sail soon. Been a pleasure meetin’ you all, but duty calls, and I got a life to live. So, with that said, I bid you adieu and hasta la vista.”

“Ain’t it been a delight crossin’ paths with ya, ‘Thunder’. I reckon we’ll rendezvous again on the next voyage.”

Eugene stepped up, his hat in hand, and addressed Amelia, “It’s been a real pleasure meetin’ ya, ma’am. These here folks might be playin’ on the wrong side of the law, but they sure seem like decent sorts. You can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be givin’ your sister a glowin’ report.”

“Much obliged, Mr. Leftowicz. You ain’t half bad for a private eye. Safe travels back.”

Murphy tipped his hat and gave a wave to Amelia and Jenny. ‘Thunder’s boat roared to life and sped away from the Adelaide, leavin’ a rooster tail in its wake.

“Next in line, step up please. You look mighty familiar. What’s your handle?”

“Call me Captain Jack, ma’am. Yep, I’m a regular customer ’round these parts. If my memory serves me right, I usually spot ya down in Nassau. Ain’t you strayin’ from your usual stompin’ grounds?”

“That’s right, Jack. I’m explorin’ new horizons, seekin’ fresh opportunities. Can’t rightly say where our paths will cross next. How can we be of service to ya today?”

“I reckon I’ll be needin’ ’round 2000 sacks. When I run dry, I’ll be makin’ my way back here.”

“A nice round number indeed. We’ll have ’em brought up for ya. Price tag will be $50,000.”

“Much obliged, ma’am. I’ll have my crew load ’em onto my boat, and I look forward to our next encounter.”

The day rolled on, just like any other, until the cargo hold had been cleared. Jenny turned to Amelia and spoke, “Well, what’s your take on this? Livin’ the life of a rum runner. Is it your cup of tea?”

Amelia paused, considering the question, then replied, “You know, Jenny, I can picture myself in this world for the long haul. There’s still plenty for me to grasp, but with time, I reckon I’ll get the hang of it.”

“That’s swell to hear. I got full faith in ya, darlin’. Prohibition may not last forever, but while it’s here, we’ll make the most of it. And when it’s all said and done, life’s gonna take a different turn, and we’ll adapt right along with it. As is the tradition after a successful day of movin’ our goods, it’s time to throw a bash. We’ll have grub, booze, and all-around revelry. Let the good times roll!”

…

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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
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Private Eye: 8

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir mystery, mobsters, private eye, prohibitiion, Prose, rumrunners, rumrunning

 

“So,” says Eugene, “we are headin’ down to the Bahamas. What’s in store for us?”

McCarthy responds, “I will be meetin’ with other gents in business at the Lucerne Hotel in Nassau. Rum, whiskey, and gin, they’re all legally shipped in from the United Kingdom, see?”

“By gents in business, you mean other fellas in the rum running game?”

“There’ll be some rum runners there, but also representatives from Scottish and other UK distilleries, see? It’s gonna be dull, real dull. Ain’t your kinda thing. But Nassau’s got plenty to offer, pal. Eugene, I ain’t known ya for long, but I can tell you’re all wound up. The city does that, especially New York; the noise, the chaos, the danger. Ya gotta learn to unwind, my friend. Right across from the Lucerne is the Allan Hotel. They got dancin’ and top-notch grub, both local and international. No secret joints ’cause there ain’t no prohibition here. Maybe ya meet a fine dame or a fella if that’s more your speed. Ever tried snorkelin’? It’s a sight to behold, swimmin’ with the fish, the turtles, and believe it or not, even pigs. But if that’s too much effort, just plop yourself on a beach chair and let the drinks roll in.”

“I gotta admit, that does sound mighty appealin’, ‘cept for takin’ a dip with them pigs. A chair on the beach with a waiter fetchin’ me drinks is more my speed. I reckon Murphy here agrees with me on that one.

“Murph, care to join me on the beach? We’ll grab ourselves a couple of chairs, an umbrella, and have a waiter bring us our drinks. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds swell, boss. Beats anythin’ else I can think of. Look, here comes Amelia. Seems like she’s got the same idea as us.”

“Good day, Amelia. Ya certain that swimsuit of yours is on the right side of the law? Showin’ off some mighty fine pins there.”

“Yes, Eugene, I’m sure it’s legal. Bought it from a shop near the beach. The salesclerk assured me that in Nassau, they ain’t got no beach coppers measurin’ the distance between a lady’s swimsuit bottom and her knee. Did ya know the Wharton School of Business came up with this ‘hemline theory’? Claims that in good economic times, women raise their skirts to flaunt their silk stockings. But when times are tough, they lower ’em to hide the fact that they ain’t wearin’ any.”

“Well, I’ll be damned, did not know that. Suppose from a man’s perspective, we should always hope for good economic times. But when would we not? Gotta say your getup is the cat’s pajamas.”

“Here comes the waiter. What’s everyone havin’ to drink?”

Amelia speaks up, “I’ll have a Bee’s Knees.”

“What in tarnation is that?”

“It’s a cocktail made with gin, lemon, and honey. It’s got a zesty flavor, lightly sweet, and an all-around delightful drink—hence the name.”

“How ’bout you, ‘Reaper’ and ‘Thunder’, name your poison.”

“I’ll keep it simple, Eugene,” said Reaper, “just give me a straight rum.”

Thunder agreed, “That sounds good to me.”

“And you, Murph? Stickin’ to our usual scotch neat, or feelin’ a bit adventurous today?”

“I’ve always wanted to try a French 75. It is gin topped with Champagne. They named it after the French 75-mm field gun used in the War.”

“Alright, since we’re feelin’ adventurous, I heard ’bout a drink called the Southside, the preferred choice of Al Capone and his crew. It has gin, lime juice, syrup, and mint leaves. If it is good enough for Al, it is good enough for me.”

Captain McCarthy came down to the beach and said, “I would like to invite you all for supper at the Allan Hotel. They got top-notch grub, and there’s someone I wanna introduce ya to.”

The whole crew stumbled and bumbled their way through the sand ’til they reached the Allan Hotel. At the joint’s entrance, the host greeted ’em and showed ’em to their private table, tucked away in a quiet nook, far from the other patrons. He says to the bunch, “Welcome to the Allan Hotel. As a gesture of our appreciation, we got a bottle of our finest champers waitin’ for ya. A server will be here soon to take yer orders. Can I pour ya some bubbly?”

“Thanks, Gilbert, that’s mighty generous of ya.” He pours a bit in Captain McCarthy’s glass, and after givin’ it a nod of approval, he fills up the other guests’ glasses.

“Gilbert, I’m expectin’ another guest. When she shows, kindly escort her to our table, capisce?”

“Sure thing, Captain. What’s the name of yer expected guest?”

“Pirate Jenny.”

“Certainly, sir. We know Miss Jenny. I’ll bring her right over.”

McCarthy raises his glass and proposes a toast. “If youse could all raise yer glasses with me, I propose a toast to friends old and new.”

“To friends!” the crew chimes in.

“Before we start orderin’ grub, I highly recommend the Fillet of Native Grouper Meuniere. But lemme tell ya, everythin’ on the menu is delectable.”

Soon enough, Gilbert escorts a stunning dame to the table. McCarthy introduces her, “Folks, it’s my honor to present a close friend of mine, Miss Jenny, known in these parts as ‘Pirate Jenny’. Can’t remember how that moniker got started, maybe it has to do with that pistol stashed in her belt. She represents Haig and MacTavish, a British Scotch Whisky wholesaler. We’ve done a ton o’ business together.”

“Thank ya, Bill, for such a flatterin’ intro. I ain’t sure if I can live up to it. Also, thank ya for agreein’ to ship me and 5000 cases o’ Scotch to New York. This may be my last trip, Bill, I’m worried that my luck is runnin’ out. Pinched once fer smugglin’ a thousand barrels o’ whisky and rum into New Orleans. The bulls dropped the charges. But I ain’t countin’ on Lady Luck smilin’ on me next time. So far, I ain’t doin’ a stretch in the joint, and I ain’t pushin’ up daisies. I aim to keep it that way. Got enough dough to buy anythin’ I please and live the high life ’til the end of my days. It’s time fer me to cash in my chips and take a hike.”

“Gee, Miss Jenny,” piped up Amelia, “I’m real pleased ta make yer acquaintance. Ya got yerself quite the reputation, like a damn movie star. I’d be thrilled to hear more ’bout yer wild escapades.”

“Much obliged fer the flattery, but I ain’t one fer stealin’ the spotlight. We’ll have ample time ta jaw on the Adelaide. Bill says yer lookin’ to be a wordsmith. I dabble in writin’ myself. Might even jot down my memoirs one day. At the Lucerne Hotel, them newspaper scribblers and yarn spinners would plant their butts at the bar for hours, gatherin’ juicy material ta spin into tales.

“Bill ‘n’ me been huddlin’ up with them other rum runners all damn day. The meetin’ got real heated, I tell ya. Each one of ’em only lookin’ out fer their own pockets, tryin’ to squeeze out every last penny they can. We don’t know how long this here prohibition gonna drag on, nor how trigger-happy them Coast Guard fellas gonna get. You’ve seen ’em blastin’ their cannons at the Adelaide. Where’s it all gonna end? On top of that, them Purple Gang rats are comin’ at us, pilferin’ our precious cargo. Anyway, enough of that, now’s the time to chow down and wet our whistles, puttin’ our worries off ’til tomorrow. I’d like to propose a toast to my new shipmates. Bottoms up!”

…

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Private Eye: 9

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir, hooch, mobsters, mystery, prohibition, rum running

 

 

Amelia and Jenny reclined on the deck of the Adelaide, their fingers wrapped around the stem of crystal glasses filled with potent elixirs, adorned with frivolous umbrellas. Amelia, her eyes glinting with curiosity, leaned closer to Jenny, her voice oozing with intrigue, and posed the question that danced on her lips, “Jenny, my dear, this libation tantalizes my senses. Pray reveal its name, won’t you?”

 

“‘Tis called the Bahama Mama Cocktail, my dear Amelia,” Jenny replied, her voice carrying the echoes of a smoky lounge singer. She took a slow sip, savoring the blend of flavors dancing on her tongue. “An ode to my dear companion, Dottie Lee Anderson—a calypso crooner and dancer, born and raised in the heart of Nassau. It’s a symphony of fine rum, raspberry and banana liqueur, crushed ice, the nectar of pineapples and oranges, all kissed with a splash of grenadine. A concoction fit for sweltering days, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely,” Amelia affirmed, her voice as smooth as aged bourbon. “While we were trading memoirs, I took the liberty of investigating your enigmatic past. The Lucerne Hotel, it beckoned me. And there, they whispered, ‘She doesn’t cling to a single origin, oh no. She weaves a different tale for each inquisitive soul. Born in the golden hills of California, or was it amidst the colorful tapestry of India? Perhaps she wandered as a free-spirited gypsy? Ah, but no, they say she grew up amidst the cornfields of the Midwest.’ Which rendition do you choose, Jenny?”

Jenny let out a throaty chuckle, a smoky haze of mystery shrouding her words. “Ah, Amelia, I do relish the art of keeping folks guessing,” she confessed. “Yet, within the pages of my memoirs, I strive to unravel the truth. I emerged into this world in 1888, Bowling Green, Ohio, as the youngest sprout of a sprawling brood of ten. Fate robbed me of my ma at a tender age, and with my pa unable to wrangle the chaos, we were left teetering on the precipice of orphanhood. Determined to carve my own path, I embarked on a journey that led me to the sinewy heart of New York City. I started my ascent as a stenographer, tirelessly pounding away at typewriter keys, until I scaled the jagged rungs of the corporate ladder, landing a post as a junior accounts clerk at none other than Haig and MacTavish, esteemed purveyors of the finest Scotch whisky.”

“When the dark shadow of Prohibition crept upon our land, I sowed the seeds of opportunity within the fertile soil of my employer’s mind. I convinced them that smuggling liquor from the balmy embrace of the Bahamas would be a venture rife with riches. In Nassau’s seedy underbelly, I orchestrated the arrival of European vessels, their cargo brimming with the forbidden elixir. Deals were struck with the rum-runners, my influence casting a clandestine veil over the transactions. Business flourished, my dear, flourishing to the tune of a 400 percent surge in sales.”

Amelia’s eyes sparkled with intrigue, her voice hushed with reverence. “Tell me, Jenny, why do they bestow upon you the moniker of Pirate Jenny?”

Jenny’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, wrapped in a cloak of mystique. “Ah, my dear Amelia, that was a twist of fate, a happenstance that clung to me like barnacles on the worn hull of a pirate ship. Some wretched soul christened me with that name, and it seeped into the very marrow of my being. There exists a haunting melody, a ballad known as ‘Pirate Jenny,’ which I find myself drawn to, like a moth to the flickering glow of a forbidden flame. I may not possess the gift of silver-tongued oration, but allow me to share a glimpse of its verses, if it pleases you:

 

By noontime the dock
is aswarming with men
Coming out from the ghostly freighter
They move in the shadows
where no one can see

And they’re chaining up people
and they’re bringing ‘em to me
Asking me, “Kill them now or later?”
Asking me, “Kill them now or later?”
Noon by the clock, and so still at the dock
You can hear a foghorn miles away
And in the quiet of death, I’ll say,
“Right now. Right now!”
And they pile up the bodies, and I’ll say,
“That’ll learn ya!” And the ship

The black freighter
Disappears out to sea, and on it is me
Ha!

 

“It’s a somber song, ain’t it? I gotta admit, bein’ named after such a gloomy tune don’t exactly thrill me.”

“Listen, see, Low-Dive Jenny, she’s a downtrodden dame, workin’ her fingers to the bone as a maid in some godforsaken inn. She craves vengeance against them scoundrels who mock her day in and day out. That’s the part I can relate to, ya know? The rest might be exaggerated, but I ain’t gonna lie, sometimes the thought of slicin’up my enemies gives me a bit of comfort. Maybe I’m a tad paranoid, but there are folks out there who wanna see me six feet under.

Somethin’ else that really got me was divin’ into the tales of pirates, thanks to Captain Charles Johnson. His stories entertained me with the adventures of Anne Bonny and Mary Read—fierce dames who didn’t play by nobody’s rules. These gals defied every damn societal norm thrown their way. Captain ‘Calico Jack’ Rackham, along with Anne and Mary, took hold of an armed ship in Nassau, leavin’ a trail of pillaged vessels scatterin’ across the Caribbean’s shores. It was out on them rough seas that Read and Bonny showed their unmatched skills, outshinin’ even the most seasoned buccaneer. None among their crew possessed a greater resolve or willingness to face danger head-on than these two women. When their vessel was assaulted and the clash grew near, it was only Mary and Anne who stood their ground upon the deck. Mary, with her fiery spirit, beckoned those lurking below to rise and fight like men. Yet, met with silence, she unleashed a hail of gunfire upon them, claiming the life of one and leaving several wounded in her wake.

“Amidst the tumultuous sea of piracy, Mary Read’s lover found himself embroiled in a bitter dispute with one of his fellow buccaneers. Their ship, anchored near a desolate island, became the chosen battleground for their showdown, adhering to the ruthless code of the pirates. Mary, consumed by an anguished restlessness, feared for her lover’s fate. She could not bear the thought of him being labeled a coward if he were to decline the challenge. Yet, on the other hand, she harbored deep apprehension, for she suspected the adversary might prove too formidable. Driven by her unwavering loyalty, Mary resolved to confront the antagonist herself. She issued a direct challenge, electing to face him onshore, deliberately setting the rendezvous two hours ahead of the appointed meeting with her lover. With sword and pistol in hand, she engaged in a deadly duel, clashing with her foe, and ultimately claimed his life in an instant, extinguishing his presence from this world.

“Jenny, darlin’, those words you spin, they reach down into the pit of my stomach. I got this sensation stirrin’ within, deep in my gut, tellin’ me I got the strength to take control. I ain’t gonna be shackled by no man. You’ve awoken a savage force in me, and I’m itch in’ to let it loose, see what chaos I can stir up. I’m fixin’ to grab this whole damn world by the throat.”

“Well, Amelia, that sure does put a smile on my face. I always knew beneath that delicate facade, there burned the fire of a true renegade. You’re a pirate through and through, my friend.

“In some ways, the flappers of our time got that same rebellious spirit. Not by brandishing swords but by flipping the bird at convention, lightin’ up their smokes with a big ol’ ‘screw you,’ raisin’ their glasses to lips society deemed forbidden, and dancin’ their hearts out. These modern sirens fought for women’s freedom—socially, politically, and, hell, even sexually. The older folks called ’em wild, rowdy, a stain on the decent fabric of society, but they reveled in their unapologetic liberation, embracin’ a life others deemed disgraceful.

Amelia asked, “Tell me about you and Jim. You two got a long history.”

“Yeah, see, me and Jim, we’ve been buddies for a good while now. We’ve had our share of ups and downs, ya know? But we respect each other, sharin’ similar ideals and dreams. No romance between us, though. Jim, he’s into younger dames, ya catch my drift? In 1919, at the ripe age of forty-two, he tied the knot with a gal barely twenty winters old. But that gal skipped town just six months later. As for me, I ain’t lookin’ for no weddin’ bells. My love life is lively, and it suits me just fine. Now, I can see there’s a soft spot for Jim in your heart, doll. So go ahead, take your shot. Enjoy life while you can, ya know? The times we’re livin’ in, they’re damn chaotic and dangerous. That’s why I reckon it’s time for me to hang up my hat and retire.”

Amelia pondered, her thoughts drifting in a haze of nostalgia and desire. “This kind of life, it creeps into your bones, doesn’t it? Soaking in the vastness of the ocean, savoring cocktails on sandy shores, or perhaps aboard a grand vessel.”

“Aye, but sooner or later, lass, ye might find yourself yearnin’ for a more gainful occupation. If ye be inclined, I reckon I could set ye on the path of a rum runner. ‘Tis a treacherous trade, no doubt, but one that can reward ye handsomely. There are darker roads to wander, ye ken, and the payoff can be mighty fine.”

“Marvelous, so when do we embark?”

“We’re headin’ towards Rum Row, lass. It is the perfect place to commence our venture.”

“In that case,” inquired Amelia with a touch of intrigue, her voice laced with a hint of suspicion, “what’s the inside scoop on this gig, see? I ain’t one for heaving hefty cargo, I’ll tell ya that.”

“No need to fret ’bout that, doll. We got our muscle to handle the heavy lifting onshore and aboard the ship. The big shot in charge, Captain Jim, he’s the top dog, callin’ the shots when it comes to loading and unloading the goods. There’s a young whippersnapper, the Ship’s Mate, takin’ care of all the damned paperwork involved.”

“The hooch is packed tight in six bottles, wrapped in straw, stacked up all fancy. Three at the bottom, two in the middle, and one toppin’ it off, all bundled up snug in burlap. We got ourselves some fancy nicknames for ’em, like ‘burlocks’ or ‘sacks’ or ‘hams’.”

“Now, here’s where you come into play. We dangle the price lists over the ship’s side, lettin’ the buyers know what’s on offer and the price they gotta pay. We allow two buyers aboard at a time. They’ll give you their order, and the young cargo officer collects it. You’ll jot down a bill of sale, and those fools hand you the cold, hard cash, just like in a regular store. Once they’re off the ship, two more chumps take their place. Easy as pie, see?” Amelia’s voice quivered with a tinge of unease, “Sounds like a dangerous business, boss.”

“Don’t you worry, dollface. We got you covered. Up front, we got a hidden machine gunner, ready to deal with any funny business that comes our way.” Amelia hesitated, her doubts etched upon her face, as she spoke, “All this talk of guns ain’t my cup of tea, see? I’ve led a sheltered life, never had to resort to firearms. If I had a squabble with someone, I’d let out a scream, give ’em a slap, maybe even a scratch. But pullin’ a trigger? It ain’t my style.” “I understand where you’re comin’ from, sweetheart. Truly, I do. I ain’t sayin’ you gotta go blastin’ folks left and right. Just the sight of a gun can make those scoundrels think twice. You dig?” “I know it’s a heavy burden to bear, and I see it’s rattlin’ ya. Tell you what, I’ll fetch ya another drink. We’ll gaze out at the ocean, watch them dolphins dancin’, and come supper time, you’ll see things in a whole new light. We can have a chat with Captain Jim, or as you prefer to call him, Jimmy. Maybe he’s got some ideas to calm your nerves, see?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Captain Jim’s voice boomed across the joint, capturing everyone’s attention, “we got ourselves a special treat from our top-notch cook tonight. To kick things off, he’ll be servin’ a mean Prawn Cocktail, followed by a damn fine Conch Salad. Now, for the main event, prepare your taste buds for some mouth-watering’ Grilled Chimichurri Pork Roast, accompanied by Baked Rice Milanaise. And to satisfy your sweet tooth, we got a heavenly Bahamian Rum Cake. As for your drinks, the choice is yours, but we’ll be showcasin’ the Side Car. Bon appétit!”

“Amelia,” the captain leaned in, his gaze smoldering, “would you do me the honor of sittin’ by my side?”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Amelia responded coyly, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“Amelia, word is that Jenny let it slip ’bout trainin’ ya to take over some of her duties. She’s thinkin’ ’bout retirin’ from the rum game. How does that strike ya? Somethin’ you fancy?”

“It sounds like a real challenge, Captain. I’d be thrilled to give it a whirl.” “Glad to hear that. Trustworthy folks are as scarce as hen’s teeth in this line of work. The Mafia’s always tryin’ to muscle in, and those Purple Gang hoodlums are causin’ havoc for the go-fast boats loadin’ from our ship. And don’t even get me started on them thievin’ vultures over in Nassau.”

“You sure know how to pitch a job, Captain. Just hope I make it out alive.”

“Look, I ain’t here to sugarcoat things or lead ya down the garden path. What we do here ain’t no child’s play. Among the folks guzzlin’ our hooch are the big-shot bootleggers who control and stock thousands of speakeasies across the nation. I’m talkin’ ’bout names that send chills down your spine like Big Bill Dwyer, that slippery snake “Lucky” Luciano in New York, and that infamous son of a gun, Al Capone, holdin’ court in Chicago. These ain’t the kind of people you wanna cross, my friend. Trust me on that one.” The captain’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, his gaze intense. “They got connections, power, and an army of thugs ready to snap your neck if you so much as give ’em the evil eye. So, tread carefully, keep your trap shut, and make damn sure you don’t ruffle their feathers. It’s a dangerous game we’re playin’, and the consequences can be deadly, see?”

“Another thing, kid. You gotta think about your sister. How’s she gonna take the news if you decide to go through with this?” Amelia’s expression turned pensive as she weighed the implications.

“Well, my sister’s always been a tough nut. She’s got her own dreams and ambitions, ya know? I reckon she’ll understand that this is an opportunity for me, a chance to make somethin’ of myself in this cutthroat business.” The captain nodded, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes.

“I hope you’re right, sweetheart. Family ties can be a double-edged knife in this line of work. But if you’re willin’ to take the risk, I’ll have your back every step of the way.”

Amelia smiled, determination glinting in her eyes. “Thanks, Captain. With you watchin’ my back, I won’t let anyone down, especially my sister.”

“Alright, enough jawin’ for now. I’ve spilled the beans and laid it all out on the table. Take your time, sleep on it, and give me your answer come mornin’. Tomorrow’s gonna be a damn big day, mark my words. Rum Row’s gonna be swarmin’ with up to a hundred ships like ours, loaded to the gills with hooch. We’ll be packed in there like sardines, elbow to elbow, trippin’ over each other just tryin’ to get our business done. It’s gonna be a madhouse, a real three-ring circus.” The captain’s voice trailed off, leaving a thick cloud of smoke hanging in the dimly lit room. He leaned back in his worn-out chair, the creaking sound echoing through the air. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, locked onto mine, and a sly grin slithered across his weathered face. It was the kind of smile that held secrets and promises, a glimpse into the twisted dance of shadows and secrets that plagued this city.

“But you know, kid,” he drawled, his gravelly voice slicing through the silence like a switchblade. “What separates the men from the boys, or in your case, the tough cookie dames from the little dolls, is somethin’ special. It’s that coolness, that level-headedness that sets the winners apart from the losers. When the whole damn world turns into a cesspool of trouble, it’s the ones who keep their heads straight that come out on top. Could be smoother than a silk sheet, or it might spiral into a hellish nightmare. We never know until we’re waist-deep in the muck. So, kid, get some shuteye, gather your wits, and gird yourself for what lies ahead. Tomorrow, we unveil the hand fate’s dealt us.”

The room exhaled a heavy breath, carrying the scent of whiskey and desperation. Shadows danced on the peeling wallpaper, casting their eerie ballet across the cracked linoleum floor. The world outside these walls was a chaotic tango of corruption and despair, and we were the last bastion of order in this crumbling city. I knew his words held weight, heavy as a lead pipe wrapped in desperation. The captain, with his scarred soul and eyes that had seen too much, had a knack for cutting through the smoke and mirrors. In this twisted game of chance and deceit, he was the only one who truly knew the rules. As I left the captain’s office, his warning echoed in my mind like a haunting refrain. The city streets beckoned, an urban jungle teeming with predators and prey. I tightened my grip on the collar of my trench coat, the fabric a shield against the lurking darkness. Level heads, that’s what I needed. Coolness under fire, a steely resolve to navigate the treacherous alleys and backstabbing alley cats that awaited me. I stepped into the night, the moon peeking through the clouded sky, casting an ethereal glow on the city’s twisted architecture. Tomorrow, when the dawn broke and the city awakened, I would plunge headfirst into the heart of this labyrinth. The cards would be dealt, the game would begin, and I would be damned if I didn’t come out on top. In the streets of this urban jungle, I would find the truth. Whether it led to redemption or ruin, only time would tell. But one thing was certain – in this world of smoke and shadows, I was about to play a dangerous game, where every step forward could be a step closer to salvation or a plunge into the abyss.

…

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bootlegging, booze, hooch, mafia, mobsters, private eye, prohibition, rumrunning, speakeasie

 

The following morning, Eugene stepped into his dimly lit office, the smell of stale cigarette smoke hanging in the air. He rasped out, “Mornin’, Molly. Anythin’ new on the wire?”

Molly, his weary secretary, replied in a husky voice, “Mornin’, Mr. Leftowicz. Evelyn Monroe called, wonderin’ if there’s been any progress on findin’ her sister.”

“Patch her through, Molly. I’ll take it from here.”

“She’s holdin’ on the line. I’ll transfer the call to ya.”

Eugene picked up the phone, his gravelly voice cutting through the line. “Mornin’, Miss Monroe. I’ve been tracin’ a few leads. Any word from Amelia or a ransom note, perhaps?”

“Nah, nothin’ yet. What’s the word on the street, Mr. Leftowicz?”

“The bartender over at Chumley’s Speakeasy spilled the beans. Says he spotted her chattin’ up Franky ‘The Fist’ Martino and later with Gianni ‘Three Fingers’ Moretti. Both of ’em are bad news, connected to the five major crime families. They dabble in bootleggin’, gambling, protection, dames and whatever shady business tickles their fancy.”

“What do you mean by ‘dames,’ Mr. Leftowicz?”

“I mean they’re knee-deep in the prostitution racket, Miss Monroe.”

“Oh, dear. I was hopin’ it wouldn’t come to that. Amelia’s always been a good girl.”

“I’m thinkin’ if she overheard somethin’ sittin’ at Franky’s table and let it slip to Gianni, that’d be enough to put her in hot water. Franky and Gianni are sworn enemies.”

“I see. I’m countin’ on you to find her, Mr. Leftowicz.”

“I will not let ya down, Miss Monroe. There are a couple more trails I need to follow. I will keep ya posted.” Eugene hopped in his battered Ford and cruised over to 17 Grove Street, the house linked by an underground tunnel to Chumley’s. He rapped on the door, and an elderly couple with silver hair welcomed him inside. “I am Gladys Anderson, and this here’s my old man, Henry. Take a seat in the parlor. We ain’t used to havin’ visitors. What can we do for ya?”

“Thank ya kindly. I’d like to have a word ’bout the tunnel under your house and its connection to 200 Bedford Street.”

“We’re aware of the tunnel, but we ain’t got much use for it. Chumley’s staff gives us a holler when they got a delivery lined up, and we oblige. Parkin’ ain’t easy on Bedford Street, ya see. They’re decent folks over there. Wish our other neighbors were as swell.”

“Y’know, transportin’ and sellin’ hooch is against the law, right?”

“Sure thing, but it’s a laughable law,” Henry chuckled. “Gladys and me enjoy a sip every now and then. We drop by Chumley’s regularly, though we always use the front entrance.”

Eugene scrutinized the Andersons, a hunch tellin’ him there was more to their tale than met the eye. He took a sip of his tea, lettin’ the silence hang heavy in the room before speakin’ again. “The heat’s crackin’ down on them bootleg joints, ya dig? And anyone caught rubbin’ elbows with ’em can end up in a whole lotta trouble.”

Gladys shot a concerned glance at Henry, her eyes flashin’ with worry. “We know the risks, Mr. Leftowicz. We’re simple folks lookin’ for a little pleasure now and then. We ain’t lookin’ to get mixed up in nothin’ deeper than that.”

Eugene nodded, takin’ in their story. He was no stranger to a stiff drink, but he also understood the perils of the bootleggin’ racket and the illicit trade in connections ain’t just a convenient way to move booze. There might be bigger mob operations at play, ones that could put innocent folks like yerselves in harm’s way.”

Henry leaned in, his voice dripping with curiosity and concern. “What’s the danger, Mr. Leftowicz? How could our link to Chumley’s spell trouble?”

Eugene stared the Andersons down, weighin’ his words carefully. “There’s a chance that Chumley’s might be knee-deep in more than just servin’ drinks. The underworld of organized crime often ties itself to the liquor trade durin’ prohibition. There could be rival gangs, illegal gamblin’, or even smugglin’ goin’ on under the surface. My job’s to uncover the truth and keep the innocent outta harm’s way.”

Gladys and Henry exchanged worried glances. “So, what do we do, Mr. Leftowicz?” Gladys asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Do ya let guests from Chumley’s come through them tunnels?”

“Once in a while, if they give us a heads-up. Gianni Moretti brought a dame with him last week. Name was Amelia, a real looker. She had an interest in the history of this here house. They seemed like a swell couple.”

“Amelia’s sister hired me to find her. She’s gone missin’, ain’t showin’ up for college, and her friends ain’t got a clue where she’s at. They’re worried sick.”

Mrs. Anderson chimed in, her voice filled with concern. “We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Leftowicz. We’ll do whatever we can to help. Ya don’t think that nice Mr. Moretti had somethin’ to do with her disappearance, do ya?”

Henry spoke in a gravelly voice, his words laced with a hint of suspicion. “As for that link to 100 Bedford Street, it’s a two-story joint, standin’ all alone just across the backyard. Downstairs, there’s a sittin’ room, a dinin’ room, and a kitchen. Upstairs, there’s an office and a bedroom. It’s empty now. Maybe the previous owners used it. Perhaps they had a big family and needed the extra space.”

“Mind showin’ me the joint? I reckon it might hold some clues as to what’s gone down.”

“Sure thing, I will fetch the keys. You can snoop around but bring ’em back when ya leave.”

“Well, Murphy, this here’s a swell hideaway. Let’s take a look-see and reconnoiter what we can sniff out. You check this floor, I’ll head upstairs.” Eugene came back down holdin’ a round container. “Recognize this, Murph? It’s a drum magazine for a Tommy gun, also known as a Chicago Typewriter. The mobsters use these babies to rub out their enemies. At 900 rounds per minute, it takes care of a whole lotta enemies in the blink of an eye, ya see? This fella, he’s dead serious ’bout his pieces. Seen these babies in action back in the war, they were called ‘trench sweepers.’ Sounds like there might be a gang war brewin’.”

“Why they call it a Chicago Typewriter?”

“Well, I reckon there’s a couple of reasons. First off, when this bad boy fires, it goes rat-tat-tat, just like the clickety-clack of a typewriter. Second, nicknames were handy for passin’ messages without prying ears catchin’ on. ‘Chicago Typewriter’ sounds harmless, y’know? But ‘Thompson sub-machine gun,’ now that’s somethin’ more ominous.”

“Eugene, looks like someone’s been holed up here. There’s grub in the ice box, empty hooch bottles, a fancy shopping bag from a boutique, a dame’s clothes hangin’ in the closet, and a bottle of Chanel Number 5. Think this might belong to Amelia, our client’s sister?”

“Seems like we gotta pay a visit to Evelyn Monroe, see if she recognizes them duds and the scent. But first, let’s return them keys to the Andersons and see if they remember anythin’ ’bout Gianni ‘Three Fingers’ or Amelia.”

After knockin’ on the door at 17 Grove Street and handin’ back the keys to Mr. Anderson, Eugene spoke up, “There’s signs someone’s been crashin’ at 100 Bedford Street. Found vittles, empty booze bottles, lady’s threads, and a bottle of perfume. These hints might point to Amelia Monroe.”

“Well, that’s a shocker. ‘Cept for you, we ain’t handed them keys to nobody. How the hell did they get in?”

“These fellas we’re dealin’ with, they got ways to get past any lock. A door wouldn’t have slowed ’em down none. After they split from here, you got any clue where Amelia and Gianni were headin’?”

“Ain’t got a clue. Saw ’em jump in a big ol’ black ride, think it was a Packard. Headed west, if that means anythin’ to ya. They seemed like a swell couple, ya know.”

“Amelia’s kinfolk been searchin’ for her. She’s gone missin’, ain’t been seen by nobody, and she ain’t reached out to her pals or her sister. Can’t even imagine how fretful they are.”

Mrs. Anderson chimed in, her voice tinged with sympathy. “Aw, Mr. Leftowicz, that’s mighty sad to hear. We’re here to lend a hand in any way we can. Ya reckon that nice fella, Mr. Moretti, had anythin’ to do with her vanishing?”

“We ain’t sure what went down. I’ll leave ya my card, just in case somethin’ jogs your memory ’bout her whereabouts. Give me a ring, day or

“Thank ya kindly for your cooperation, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”

…

The next day, Eugene met with his partner Paddy Murphy, a hardened detective with a nose for trouble. Paddy was a man of few words but possessed an uncanny ability to sniff out lies and deceit. They met at a rundown diner on the outskirts of town, a dimly lit place The next day, Eugene met with his partner Paddy Murphy, a that served as their unofficial headquarters.

Over a cup of black coffee, Eugene recounted the events of the previous night, the encounter with Franky Martino, and the discovery of the secret passage. Paddy listened intently, his sharp eyes focused on Eugene’s every word. When Eugene finished, Paddy let out a low whistle, a sign that he was intrigued.

“This case keeps getting stranger by the minute,” Paddy muttered, his voice gruff and weathered. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this line of work, it’s that secrets have a way of unraveling themselves. We just need to follow the breadcrumbs, Eugene.”

Eugene nodded, a steely resolve in his eyes. “We start with Gianni ‘Three Fingers.’ Franky mentioned him as the last person seen with Amelia. If anyone knows her whereabouts, it’s him.”

Paddy smirked, a flicker of excitement dancing in his gaze. “Gianni’s known to frequent the local jazz clubs. Let’s pay a visit to The Blue Note. Maybe we’ll catch him there, drowning his sorrows in a glass of bootlegged whiskey.”

The Blue Note was a dimly lit joint, where the sultry tunes of a saxophone blended with the clinking of glasses and hushed conversations. Smoke hung in the air, casting an ethereal glow over the patrons who sought solace in the jazz-infused melodies.

Eugene and Paddy took a seat at the bar, ordering two bourbons on the rocks. From their vantage point, they observed the crowd, searching for any sign of Gianni. The bartender, a weathered man with tired eyes, approached them and poured their drinks.

“You boys looking for someone in particular?” the bartender asked, wiping the bar with a faded cloth.

Eugene leaned in, his voice low and gravelly. “We’re looking for Gianni ‘Three Fingers.’ Heard he’s been causing a stir around here. Any idea where we can find him?”

The bartender’s eyes flickered with a mix of caution and wariness. He leaned in closer, ensuring no one else could overhear their conversation. “Gianni’s a slippery one, but I’ve seen him leave with a redhead a couple of nights ago. Had a classy dame vibe about her. They might be heading to his hideout. If you’re smart, you’ll tread lightly. Gianni doesn’t take kindly to unwanted visitors.”

Eugene slipped the bartender a folded bill, his way of expressing gratitude. “Thanks for the tip, pal. We’ll be sure to keep our guard up.”

The partners made their way through the labyrinthine streets, guided by the flickering glow of neon signs and the distant sound of jazz. As they approached Gianni’s hideout—a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of town—their footsteps fell silent, their senses heightened.

With each creaking step on the worn wooden floor, Eugene and Paddy descended into the heart of darkness. The air was thick with anticipation, and the scent of danger hung heavy. They knew they were walking into a lion’s den, but they had a damsel in distress to save.

As they pushed open the rusted door, the scene before them unfolded like a noir painting. Gianni stood in the center of the room, a cigar hanging loosely from his mouth, surrounded by his loyal henchmen. Amelia, disheveled and bruised, was tied to a chair, her eyes filled with both fear and hope at the sight of her rescuers.

Eugene’s hand tightened around his revolver, his grip steady and resolute. Paddy stood by his side, his presence a silent reassurance. They were ready to face the devil himself if it meant saving Amelia.

Gianni’s eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Well, well, if it ain’t Leftowicz and his faithful sidekick. You boys just made the biggest mistake of your lives.”

Eugene’s voice cut through the tense silence, his words laced with a newfound determination. “Gianni, you messed with the wrong dame this time. We’re here to collect what’s owed and put an end to your reign of terror.”

The room erupted in chaos as bullets flew and fists swung. The symphony of violence danced to the rhythm of justice, echoing through the warehouse like a tragic melody. In the end, justice prevailed, and Amelia was freed from her captors.

As Eugene watched the sun rise over the city, its golden rays piercing through the darkness, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Another chapter closed in the city’s shadowy underbelly, but Eugene knew that the streets would always breed new mysteries, new cases to solve.

With his fedora pulled low and his trench coat billowing in the wind, Eugene walked into the horizon, ready to face whatever awaited him in the heart of noir. The world may be a dark place, but he was its beacon of light—the last bastion of justice in a city that thrived on shadows.

…

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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
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http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Word on the Street c

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir, mobsters, private eye, prohibition, Prose, rumrunning

 

 

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.

…

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http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Word on the Street b

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir mystery, mobsters, private eye, prohibitiion, Prose, rumrunners, rumrunning

 

 

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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Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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They Call Me Red:
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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
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http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Private Eye: 7

Tags

booze, hooch, mafia, mobsters, private eye, prohibition, rumrunners, smuggling

“So, Vinny, or should I call you “Reaper’, what’s next?”

“How ‘bout we go for a boat ride? You can see how the other half lives. It is just a few minutes to the dock.”

“This is a nice ride, Vinny. Business must be good.”

“It is good. I always wanted a Duesenberg. This is the 1929 model J. It has a 420 cubic inch straight eight engine producing 265 horsepower. It has a top speed of 91 miles per hour. It’s the fastest and most expensive American machine on the market. Now I’m bragging but if you want one of these I can show you how to get it.“

“I think I know how you got this and it’s not in my line.”

‘Okay but be ready to be impressed. We’re approaching a straightaway. Hold on!”

“Wow, Vinny, I have to admit I’ve never been in a machine that moved so fast. Everything about this is top drawer. I’m impressed.”

“Okay, we’re coming to the dock. I will introduce you to Freddie ‘Thunder’ McGee. You’ll see why they call him ‘Thunder’.”

“Vinny,” said ‘Thunder’, “it’s been a long time. Are you ready for a fast ride?”

“Freddie, this is Eugene, a private eye, and his partner Paddy. These guys want to meet up with Jim McCarthy. I can vouch for them they’re both straight shooters.”

“Okay, boys, let me introduce you to my boat ‘Thunder’. When I start it up, you’ll hear why I call it that.”

The four men boarded the boat and seated themselves. ‘Thunder’ said, “Is everyone secure. I have lost people when I hit the throttle so fasten your life jackets and hang on.”

The passengers were thrown back in their seats and their faces were distorted with the thrust of the boat. Everybody hung on for dear life. Vinny said,” That is what an airplane engine sounds like. ‘Thunder’ had it retrofitted. The boat can now reach 34 miles per hour making it one of the fastest boats on these waters. The Coast Guard doesn’t have a boat that can catch it.”

“If you think this is loud,” shouted Thunder, “wait until you experience the Adelaide. It has three high-powered Liberty aircraft engines installed left over from the World War. Speed is 35 miles per hour compared to 24 miles per hour for the Coast Guard. Under full throttle, you would think you’re flying. Only experienced it once, but it was a thrill. Not only that but more to our hearts she can transport 6000 cases of whiskey.”

“We’re nearing the ship. Everyone keep their hands in sight and don’t make any fast moves. You won’t see it, but a machine gun is trained on you now.”

As they neared Captain Jim’s boat several sailors were ready with ropes to secure the ‘Thunder’ when it came alongside. A rope ladder was also thrown down.

With difficulty, the four men clambered up the ladder. At times their bodies caused them to swing toward the ship.

“Thunder,” said McCarthy, “I wasn’t expecting you until next week. Who are your friends?”

“This is Vinny ‘the Reaper’, Eugene and his partner Paddy they are private eyes. They have some questions for you. Don’t worry it is nothing about rumrunning.”

“Come aboard, we can have a drink while we talk. Do you have a preference, or shall I bring out my finest whiskey?”

Eugene said, “That’s hard to turn down. We appreciate your hospitality.”

“You have questions. What are they?”

“I have been hired to find the whereabouts of Amelia Monroe. Her sister is worried about her.”

“Amelia is here. I’ll have someone call for her. Right now she’s below deck in my cabin. Assure you she is here of her own free will and in good health. Here she is, you can ask her yourself.”

“Amelia, my name is Eugene Leftowicz, we spoke on the telephone.”

Eugene was not ready for the swell-lookin’ dame standin’ afore him. The likeness to her sister was mind-blowin’, but while Evelyn was a blonde, Amelia sported long, luscious, wavy hair cascadin’ down her back. Instead of them baby blues, Amelia’s peepers were as dark as a shadowy alley. Their shapes were alike, but Amelia had more curves to make heads turn. Eugene had seen her type before. Her luscious lips could make promises her heart had no intention to keep. She was all smoke and mirrors, playin’ with a fella’s heart like a cheap deck of cards. She was a real slick operator, this one.

“So, my big sister sent you. I told you that everything was copacetic. I am enjoying a cruise as the guest of Captain McCarthy, or Jim as he likes me to call him. Now that you’ve seen me, I trust that you will deliver a favorable report to my nosy sister.”

“I will indeed, Miss Monroe. It was not our intention to cause you any trouble. It was just your sister being protective. As I can see that you are being well cared for, I will advise your sister accordingly.”

“Thank you, Captain McCarthy, for your generous hospitality. I hope we haven’t disrupted your day.”

“Not at all, gentlemen, please come again. Thunder, did you want to collect your shipment today or wait until next week.”

“Today is good, it’ll save me a trip and I have assistants to help with the heavy lifting.”

“So, we’ll start loading your usual order of 383 sacks of our finest?”

“Yes please, Jim. I have your payment on hand.”

A loud, rough, and garish low-pitched sound like a tuba played from close range sounded on deck. Eugene noticeably startled exclaimed, “What the hell is that? It sounds like a foghorn, but there’s no fog. What is up?”

“We have an emergency!” shouted Captain McCarthy, “That sound is warning of an approaching Coast Guard vessel. Everyone get below deck. NOW! This could be crazy. Helmsman, change course! Out to sea!”

“I don’t want to cause any unnecessary worry, but Coast Guard has been known to fire machine guns and cannons. We’re in international waters and we’re registered under a British flag. The United States doesn’t have jurisdiction here, but they don’t always follow the rules. We’ll be safer further out to sea. Enjoy your voyage.”

Eugene and Murphy looked at each other in panic mode. “This changes everything,” shouted Eugene over the blast of the foghorn. “I guess we had better get below deck, wherever that is.”

“This way gents,” instructed McCarthy, “a sailor will lead you below deck. Don’t panic, we have enough grub onboard to keep us for a month and more hooch than you could imagine in your wildest dreams. You’ll find the quarters quite comfy. Think of this as a hotel on the water.

“Thunder, we have your boat in tow. There is nothing to worry about.”

A sailor opened the hatch and directed the passengers down the companionway to below deck. As the captain had advised, Eugene and Murphy found the ship’s quarters to their liking. The engines roared and passengers were thrown back in their seats. The sailors had been instructed to treat them as special guests and were prompt in serving glasses of hooch. In Eugene’s mind, he had arrived in heaven.

Amelia joined them for a drink. “Jim said that as a landlubber I should keep you company. We will let the sailors do the sailing.”

“So, Amelia, spill the beans,” prompted Eugene. “We have heard about you from your sister, but I am sure she left out a lot of juice. Please, elucidate.”

“Well, ain’t you bringing out the fancy words? Not bad for a private dick. I’m just a greenhorn trying to get schooled in the real world. Eventually, I hope to learn enough to be able to write about my adventures. These last few weeks have surely provided material.”

“That’s an understatement. Are you aiming to be a bootlegger, or maybe a mob boss? Or haven’t you made up your mind?”

“I know you’re being facetious. See, I know big words too. I’ve met some swell folks lately who have been more than generous in helping me explore my life goals. Where my path will lead is up for grabs.”

A loud boom erupted near the ship. One of the sailors comes down to spill the beans on what’s goin’ down.

“We’re getting’ blasted by the San Diego, a Coast Guard vessel. They’re usin’ a 6-pounder, which was a handy anti-tank cannon back in the war. We’re stuck with a bunch of Colt-Browning machine guns, hardly a match for that cannon.”

“So, what’s the scoop now?” pipes up Eugene, “Will the Coast Guard hop on board? Are we gonna get pinched like in them speakeasies?”

“We’ll try to keep you outta sight and outta trouble. Just take it easy and enjoy the cruise. Sorry to put ya to any inconvenience.”

“Listen here, pal. It really chaps my hide when I gotta wait for my drink. It’s a real inconvenience, see? But let me tell ya, gettin’ blasted by a cannon ain’t nothin’ to scoff at. It’s a whole different ballgame if ya catch my drift.”

“I’ll relay your beefs to the Big Cheese. Now I gotta hit the deck and try to save your hides.”

Captain McCarthy came down and said, “I know you’re all shaking in your boots. Can’t blame ya, but we got this situation under control. You were informed that the San Diego is shootin’ at us with a 6-pounder cannon. The effective firing range of a 6-pounder is 1,650 yards. Our radar tells us they’re a mile away, which is 1760 yards. That means they’re at the edge of their shootin’ range. All we gotta do is create more distance between us and them. We’ve got a speed advantage of eleven miles per hour, or .09 miles per minute. Easy as pie.”

“I ain’t catchin’ the calculations, but I reckon we gotta put our trust in ya to get us outta this mess.”

A second deafening blast erupted. This time da ship was rattled, and da air was filled with da sound of splinterin’ timber and shatterin’ glass. “Holy shit!” exclaimed Eugene. “Is dis da big one? Are we gonna sink like rats in da ocean or get blown ta pieces right here on da ship? I don’t know which is worse. I’d rather take a mobster’s bullet any day. Quicker way to go.”

“Hold on, Eugene. Yer wish might still come true. It ain’t over yet. Least we ain’t takin’ on water, and that’s a good sign.”

“Thanks, Murph. You’re a goddamn fountain of wisdom, whatever da hell dat means.”

Captain McCarthy came down again and bellowed, “It’s over. We took a hit, but we are  outta shootin’ range, and we’re headin’ fer da Bahamas.”

“The Bahamas?” cried Eugene. “We didn’t sign up fer dis. How ’bout gettin’ us back home?”

“I’d like ta oblige ya, but headin’ home means sailin’ right inta da clutches of da Coast Guard. It’s better we keep outta sight. Besides, we can pick up anotha shipment of bootleg liquor while we’re at it.”

“I gotta admit, it’s a relief not gettin’ riddled with bullets no more. Heard the Bahamas got them pristine sandy beaches, but lemme tell ya straight, if we ain’t willin’ to head there, that’s straight-up abduction. Am I right or am I right as Wimpy says in the Popeye funny papers, truth, or am I missin’ something’?”

“You’re spot on, Mr. Leftowicz, and I reckon a judge would see it your way once you educate them about why you were on a rum running’ vessel.”

“Well there is that, I guess. How long before we reach the Bahamas?”

“By past experience, depending on weather, we should arrive in about seven days.”

…

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Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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They Call Me Red:
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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
https://buff.ly/3kP2pMZ ($2.99 Download)

zePodcasts:
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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Private Eye: 6

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir mystery, mobsters, private eye, prohibitiion, Prose, rumrunners, rumrunning

 

“There’s a call for ya, Mr.Leftowicz. Amelia Monroe’s on the line. Should I put her through?”

“Yeah, please, Molly. Let’s hear what she’s gotta say for herself.”

“Leftowicz here, Miss Monroe. Your sister and I been searchin’ for ya.”

“Yeah, heard that from a bartender at Chumley’s. My sister’s too damn protective. I’m an independent dame, shouldn’t have to answer to nobody ’bout my whereabouts.”

“Could be, Miss Monroe. But the company you’ve been keepin’ might put yer life at risk. Gianni Moretti’s an ex-con and a suspected hitman.”

“Gianni’s a swell fella, treated me with utmost courtesy and respect, a real classy guy. He told me ’bout his time in the joint for car theft. I know his family ties, but that ain’t his fault.”

“We hear you spent some time together at 100 Bedford Street. Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right, but I don’t reckon that’s anybody’s business. Anyhow, I ain’t seein’ Gianni no more. He’s got too many other dames on his arm. If my sister’s keepin’ tabs, I’m goin’ out with another fella now, a guy who’s promised to take me out on his boat. I’ll make sure to fill my sister in when I get back.”

“Reach out to your sister, she’s worried sick and wants to hear from ya. Goodbye, Miss Monroe.”

“Molly, can ya get Evelyn Monroe on the blower? I got some info for her.”

“She’s on the line now, puttin’ her through.”

“Thanks, Molly. Hello, Miss Monroe. Just finished talkin’ to yer sister. According to her, she’s safe and sound. I reckon this wraps up our business.”

“Oh, Mr. Leftowicz, I wish it was that easy. Amelia told me she’s on a boat or a ship with Captain McCarthy. The damn thing’s got aircraft engines. How the hell is that even possible? Anyway, they’re headin’ for Freeport in the Bahamas to nab a shipment of hooch to be unloaded near New Jersey. Amelia says not to worry ’cause their boat’s faster than them Coast Guard fellas.”

“Miss Monroe, yer sister’s in mighty dangerous waters if she’s on a rum runnin’ boat. Them Coast Guard boys will shoot ’em up with machine guns and cannons if they refuse boardin’ for inspection.”

“What the hell do we do? Any way you can get in touch with these folks to check if Amelia’s alright?”

“Sorry to say, Miss Monroe, them vessels cut off all communication when they’re at sea to dodge the Coast Guard’s radar. But I know people who know people. Maybe there’s a way to reach out to yer sister. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ’til then. I’ll give ya a ring once I get more info.”

…

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

Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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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

Private Eye: 5

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir mystery, mobsters, private eye, prohibitiion, Prose, rumrunners, rumrunning

 

“Paddy, how ya fancy takin’ a trip to the Jersey shore? Vinny ‘The Reaper’ Cagliari owes me a favor. He’s arranged a meetin’ with Captain Jim McCarthy who is anchored at Rum Row in international water twelve miles offshore. Vinny can arrange for a go-fast boat at Ottens Harbor. We’ll hop on there and head to McCarthy’s boat.”

“Forgive my ignorance but what’s a go-fast boat?”

“A go-fast boat is a boat that goes fast. It’s a boat that hauls ass. It’s used as a contact boat to nab a load from a bigger ship anchored at Rum Row and bring it ashore. It could be any boat that has been souped up or supercharged for speed. Vinny’s boat has been retrofitted with an aircraft engine. Tops out at thirty-three knots per hour, eleven knots faster than those Coast Guard fools.”

At the Ship N Shore, Vinny was nursin’ a beer at a corner table, keepin’ an eye on who was comin’ in. “Eugene, over here. How ’bout a beer? Charlie, bring us a round.”

“Vinny,” exclaimed Eugene. “Been a damn long time. How you holdin’ up?”

“Prohibition is great for business. I’ve given up fishin’ and switched to rum running. Jim McCarthy is one of my main suppliers. He’s got the finest damn liquor, picks up in Canada and the Bahamas.”

“What can ya tell me ’bout Captain McCarthy? What kinda guy is he? Is he a mobster, a pirate? a real captain? Give me the lowdown.”

“He’s a legend ’round these parts. A sea captain operatin’ outta Florida. When prohibition came ’round, he saw a chance to cash in on the situation and was one of the first rum runners smugglin’ booze from Nassau, and from Saint Pierre near Newfoundland. He spends most of his time dealin’ off Rum Row here on the coast. He’s got six ships under British registry dodgin’ US jurisdiction. Known for sellin’ his stuff pure and clean, no watered-down or mixed crap. He’s got a decent reputation. That cover it?”

“Most of my questions are answered. I’m askin’ ’cause there’s a dame named Amelia Monroe, sister of my client, on his boat. We can’t contact her, and her sister is worried sick. Nothin’ suggestin’ he’s done anythin’ wrong mind you.

“That, I’m glad to hear. Last thing I want to do is piss off my supplier.”

“I can get ya out to the Adelaide, his main ship. It’s a beauty, a fishin’ schooner, 127 feet long weighin’ in at 157 tons. This sailboat’s one the fastest on the Atlantic coast. Holds 6000 cases of bootleg booze.”

“When can we make this happen?”

“Give him a call right now. Was just ’bout ready for a run.”

Paddy inquired, “How did you end up with the nickname ‘Reaper’? Most of the names I’ve heard ain’t too flatterin’.”

“Ya see, buddy, adoptin’ a moniker comes in handy when ya wanna stay off the radar of the coppers and any other snoops. Take Vincent “Chin” Gigante, the big shot of the mob, for instance. His handle, “Chin,” was a quick’n’easy way of sayin’ “Vincenzo.” But here’s the kicker: Gigante was dead set on never havin’ his real name uttered out loud. So, he had his crew of wise guys use a little code. Instead of sayin’ his name, they’d just casually rub their fingertips across their chins or call him “Aunt Julia.” Clever, ain’t it?

“I’ll let ya in on a secret. Back in Florida, they called me ‘Peanuts’. Hated it

I’m a made man but as ‘Peanuts’ people would laugh at me. I had no juice. No respect, no influence, no power, no authority. So, when I came here, I said they call me ‘Reaper’ like the grim reaper. The name stuck.”

…

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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Word on the Street

Tags

adventure, booze, hooch, mobsters, mystery, private dick, private eye, prohibition, rumrunning, shamus, speakeasies

The next morning Eugene strolled to his office at West 20th Street, three blocks from The Tenderloin (or Satan’s Circus as the clergy called it). He recognized the building by the two concrete lion heads on the cornice. Them lions had mouths wide open, gobbling something down. What it was Eugene couldn’t make out. It gave him the heebie-jeebies. The office, a dingy hole-in-the-wall on the wrong side of town, was a magnet for trouble. He had seen it all—drunken brawls, gunfights, and illicit affairs—but the rise of Prohibition and the bootlegging racket took the city’s darkness to a whole new level. Prohibition was a godsend for organized crime. In cities across the nation, but especially for those along the borders, mobsters made a fortune. In New York, the Five Families of the Italian American Mafia teamed up with Jewish gangsters to smuggle top-shelf hooch from Europe, Canada, and the Caribbean.

Eugene took the elevator to the third floor. On the frosted glass of the door was painted Eugene Leftowicz Private Investigator. He could see a light meaning that Molly, his secretary, was already there. As he entered, he shouted “Good morning, Molly,” over the clitter-clatter of the typewriter. “Is Murphy in yet?”

“Good morning, Mr. Leftowicz. Mr. Murphy is working on the Johnson case. He said that he would show up later.”

“Remind me what that case is all about. The one with the missing cat?”

“Nah, it is a Chihuahua, boss”

“Ain’t them the dogs that look like rats?”

“Some folks say so, especially the short-haired ones. Personally, I don’t see it, but they got nasty tempers and yap like crazy. Got a rep for nipping at strangers or ankle-bitin’ small kids. Murphy has got his hands full, that’s for sure.”

…

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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Robbery

Tags

bootlegging, crime noir mystery, mobsters, private eye, prohibitiion, Prose, rumrunners, rumrunning

 

“Stop that mug! He just swiped my cash! He is packin’ a shiv!” hollered Luigi, from the speakeasy on the corner.

The crook dashed down the sidewalk past a shadowy figure leanin’ against a lamppost. A beefy forearm appeared outta thin air and landed square on the thief’s windpipe droppin’ him like a sack of flour. Private Eye, Eugene Leftowicz, slapped on the cuffs and marched him back to the joint. “Ring up the bulls, Luigi. They got a cell ready for this piece of shit.”

“Thank ya, thank ya!” cried Luigi, “he cleaned out my cash register. Eugene, you’re a lifesaver. Times are tough and I can’t afford a heist.”

“Just doin’ my job, Luigi. Just doin’ my job. I’ll be expecting’ a donut and a fresh cuppa joe tomorrow mornin’.”

“You got it, Mr. Leftowicz.”

Eugene waited for the coppers. gave his statement, and then, with a purposeful stride, headed home. He felt satisfied havin’ used his skills preventin’ a major hit on his pal.

At 12:01 a.m. on January 17, 1920, “last call” parties wrapped up across the nation, as the United States officially began enforcing federal Prohibition. Many Americans mourned the loss of legal liquor at bars, clubs and hotels. Newspaper accounts characterized these events as relatively quiet and somber, as Americans prepared for what would become thirteen dry years.

…

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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

space on the sidewalk

Tags

alcoholism, compassion, death, empathy, homeless, kindness, personal, unconditional love

there’s a space
on the sidewalk
where a smile once lived.
greetings go undelivered,
sarcasm left unsaid.

my mornings
now muted.
other lives,
many lives
mitigated.

.

we’ll say remember when —
but memories bring pain,
another reminder
of someone
we’ll never see
again.

…

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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Undercover

Tags

armed, beauty, danger, espionage, mystery, spy, undercover, war

Partner in espionage
combing back alleys
looking for clues.

Disguised, incognito,
never the woman
you appear to be.

Danger at every step,
subterfuge, deceit,
a necessity.

In times of war
everything is fair
as it is in love.

 

…

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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

Private Eye

Tags

1940's, crime noir, detective, guns, Poetry, Prose

I was on a case,
hired to tail a skirt
wearing a trench coat
and a black, wide-brimmed felt hat.
Given a snapshot
to identify her.

Obviously,
an out-of-towner,
she was giving the once-over to a map
of Los Angeles.
I assumed
it was Los Angeles.

Assumption
has led me to trouble
more times than I care to remember.
I once assumed a hophead wasn’t packing.
He pulled a gat and pumped my leg
with a couple of slugs.

I lay my peepers on her
from behind a newspaper.
She looked nervous.
A hack pulled up,
and she took the back seat.
I tailed it from two cars behind.

Just another day
as a private investigator:
gumshoe, shamus, flatfoot, bird dog,
that’s what I’m sometimes called
by people who like me.
Others, they’re not so polite.

…

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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

 

 

 

 

Fish Sauce

Tags

cooking, diet, fish, fish sauce, food, odor, preference, seafood, seasoning, smell

 

.

I HATE fish sauce
(Just putting it out there).
I HATE the smell wafting
from my neighbor’s apartment
when she cooks with fish sauce.
I HATE the taste
no matter how it’s disguised.
You told me that just because
it was made with fish sauce
it wouldn’t taste like fish sauce.
I have a fish sauce antenna
and it says YOU LIED!
There’s no way around it.
What is fish sauce?
fish or krill that have been coated in salt
and fermented for up to two years.
Fish sauce smells and tastes
like rotten fish.
I won’t eat it
and I don’t care who knows.

 

…

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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
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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

Figment

Tags

destiny, emotion, forever, imagination, loneliness, longing, mystery, personal, universe

.

i am
a figment
a dream

an image
unseen

words
unread

notes
unsung

a figment
a dream

without
a Viewer
a Reader
a Listener
a Dreamer
i am
nothing.

…

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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

In between the longing and the love

Tags

dreams, emotion, erotic, eternal, forever, intimacy, longing, love, nature, Poetry, romance

.

In dreams, I approach on boards that creak
to brush a gentle kiss on your cheek.
Your breath falls softly on my face.
as the evening breeze wafts through the lace.

Tonight, my love, as I watch you sleep,
your hand in mine as we walk deep
in the woods on trails beneath the moon
bewitched by the chorus of the loon

In between the longing and the love,
in between the mourning and the dove’s
sad refrain where trees all look the same.
Lost in my soul, I whisper your name.

Feeling our love, just us together
praying this night will last forever.
The midnight hour has come and gone.
On bed of boughs, we make love ’till dawn.

…

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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

Cowboys and Indians

Tags

Christianity, Cultural Appropriation, diversity, empowerment, First Nations, Indians, indigenous, inequality, native, racism, Whitewashing

“Indians”, referring to the original inhabitants of North America was accepted terminology in the 1940s and ’50s. The word Indian originated with Christopher Columbus, who, in his search for India, thought that he had arrived in the East Indies. In Canada, the term “Aboriginal” or “Indigenous” is preferred to “Native.”

.

As a kid, I loved reading Western comic books and watching Western television programs. One of my favorite duos was The Lone Ranger and Tonto.

Jay Silverheels (birth name Harold Jay Smith) played the role of Tonto. Concerning the image of Tonto, Silverheels remarks, “He’s stupid. The Lone Ranger treats him like some kind of servant, and this seems to suit Tonto fine.” Since Indigenous actors were often relegated to subordinate roles it gave the impression that they were not capable of anything more.

The role of Tonto may have been subservient, but the actor was not. Jay was a member of the Mohawk Aboriginal people in Canada. He adopted the nickname ‘Silverheels” during a very brief boxing career, which saw him compete as a middleweight in a Golden Gloves bout in New York City’s Madison Square Garden. Silverheels was inducted into the “Canadian Lacrosse Hall of Fame” as a veteran player in 1997. He became an outspoken activist for Indigenous rights and a respected teacher within the acting community.

 

.

Gordon Tootoosis, portrayed Albert Golo in 52 episodes of North of 60 in the 1990s. I watched every episode. In 1963 when we were both in grade eleven Gordon sat at the desk behind me. He was five feet eleven inches tall. When horsing around in the classroom he held my head in the palm of his hand and I swung punches at him. I couldn’t come close. We also attended art classes together. I was very impressed with his ink and watercolor landscapes. 

Gordon was born October 25, 1941, on the Poundmaker Cree Nation Reserve in Cut Knife, Saskatchewan. He was placed in a Catholic residential school, where he was treated harshly and forbidden to speak his own language. This is a dark period in Canadian history about which I have begun researching. As a residential school survivor, Gordon used this experience to help youth and young offenders as a social worker. He also served as chief of his community.

He was awarded membership in the Order of Canada on October 29, 2004. The investiture ceremony took place on September 9, 2005. His citation recognizes him as an inspirational role model for Aboriginal youth. From 1974 to 2012 he portrayed memorable characters in sixty movie and television productions in Canada and the United States.

.

Another of my childhood favorites was Red Ryder and his sidekick Little Beaver. At the time I didn’t know that Little Beaver was played by actor, Robert Blake, an Italian American. This is now labeled “whitewashing” and it is very prevalent in Hollywood. A recent example is the role of Tonto played by Johnny Depp in the Disney film “The Lone Ranger”. In the podcast “Ryan McMahon Gets Angry” the Anishinaabe/Metis comedian states, “We are strong, proud people, and we need to be represented, by ourselves, as such.”

…

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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

‘you should go…’

Tags

deer, destiny, nature, Poetry, Prose, unconditional love

 

in the rainbow mist
of approaching sunrise
i wait … expectantly.

i prick up my ears,
raise my rack of antlers,
recognize the engine sound.

i step onto the highway,
confident in the knowledge
that she will stop in time.

i see her large, dark eyes,
widely spaced like my own —
the gentleness of her soul.

eyes, I have seen before.
eyes, I have known before,
for lifetimes, without end.

she waits …
rolls down her window,
whispers, ‘you should go’…

 

…

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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

 

Sleeping Rough

Tags

compassion, despair, desperation, emotion, empathy, fear, loneliness, longing, loving kindness, mankind, personal, philosophy, Poetry, Prose, spiritual, unconditional love, universe, world

.

Before I open my eyes
I’m aware of a dull roar:
air brakes hissing,
cars honking,
the sound of high heels
on concrete.
It must be morning.

The cold
is unbearable.
I found some cardboard
to insulate me
from the sidewalk
but, my sleeping bag is thin.

There was freezing rain
last night.
I couldn’t sleep
for shivering.
It’s starting to snow.
I can’t feel my feet.
Sometimes, I think
it would be better
if I didn’t wake up,
but, here I am.

…

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

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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
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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

Homeless Soup Kitchen

Tags

compassion, emotion, empathy, homeless, hunger, kindness, love, loving kindness, philosophy, Poetry, Prose, psychology, spiritual

.

.

The line for meals forms at five o’clock.
Guests are mostly long-haired, bearded men
wearing dirty winter coats and torn pants.
Women attend with blackened eyes,
some with missing teeth,
each sliding a tray to be filled
with a bowl of soup and a hot meal.

The television is on.
Some guests stay for the evening
reading, talking, and playing cards.
For the most part,
the evening is jovial,
with an occasional argument,
and fights taken outside.

I look on,
wipe tables when people leave,
and take dirty dishes to the kitchen.
Everyone is out by nine o’clock
so that cots may be set up
for those spending the night.

Sleeping is crowded.
Someone comes in late,
starts punching the walls,
fights break out because of snoring,
someone tries to steal a cell phone —
a typical night at the soup kitchen.

…

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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

So Long, Sister

Tags

crime, detective, dreams, fantasy, imagination, longing, magazines, mystery, noir fiction, Poetry, romance, sighs

.

Pulp fiction vixen,
you’ve stolen my heart.
Sultry suggestions,
whiskey and wine,
destroyed my defenses,
and tore me apart.

I played it tough
like a hard-boiled dick.
You played it cool
in your sleek, satin dress,
just one of your kisses —
I was in love with you, Chick.

I’ll reach for the bottle
in my bottom desk drawer.
My answer to problems,
affairs of the heart —
if one drink won’t fix it,
I’ll try it some more.

I’ll suck on a cigarette,
watch the smoke drift away.
The scent of your perfume
lingers on my lapel —
chalk one up to experience
at the end of the day.

The chapter’s not over.
The case isn’t solved.
When the facts are all sorted,
and you’re caught dead to rights —
I’ll say, “So long, Sister.”
My dream has dissolved.

…

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

Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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They Call Me Red:
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Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz
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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

Beast

Tags

beats, compassion, emotion, empathy, erotica, fantasy, imagination, longing, love, lust, nature, romance, sighs

Photograph by Katerina Plotnikova

.

I’m drawn to you
as a bear is to honey
(not a scary bear,
one born to cuddle).

Being restless at night
I roam and I wander
following the scent
you create in arousal.

Your naked skin beckons
and raises my heartbeat.
I long to paint you
brushing with my tongue.

You have eyes of desire
that mesmerize this beast.
Feral hunger incites me
as I bear in mind our mating.

…

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

Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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http://buff.ly/1XU368M Sara Troy:  Positive Vibrations Roundtable
http://buff.ly/2jdjZd6 Patricia Saunders: Writetimes Literacy Project

 

 

 

 

Lions in Heat

Tags

free, frustration, lions, lust, mating, mystery, nature, romance

 

.

I heard her
from a way off,
the distinctive mewl
of a lioness in heat.
I licked my paws.

She’ll find me.

She found me,
paraded around
with her tail in the air,
leaving her scent
on the breeze.

I was interested
but didn’t show it.
She began licking me
I licked her back —
we licked a lot.

She crouched
belly to the ground,
tail to one side.
I bit her neck
then mounted.

This continued
for five exhausting days.
Eventually, she wandered off.
Perhaps, we’ll meet again,
or not.

.

…

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