Life After Noir

Life After Noir OOC

Seven years ago, New York City was in it's prime. Then Mayor Coburn was murdered in cold blood for double-dealing, and the world as it had been arranged began to crumble. The two major criminal families, the Irish Muirenns and the Italian Seccarinnis, lost their heirs quickly fell apart. Lives were altered by the decisions of a few, until a strange new balance was reached.

Now, in 1930, new crime organizations have risen up to fill the major gap left by the Muirenns and Seccarinnis. The stock market has caved in on itself, leaving many jobless. And strange weather has begun to cause massive dust storms across the United States.

Seven years ago, the world was turned on its ear. What's become of it since then?

Private Detective Charles Wallenstein stretched, arching his back until it emitted a sound similar to a bunch of celery being snapped in half. He grunted in approval, then retrieved his battered fedora and dusty trench coat from the hook at his office doorway. As he buttoned himself in, a smirk stretched across his rough-shaven face, and he called a farewell to the tired secretary he'd left stretched out on the old bed in the very back of the office space.

It had been a slow day for the Shamus. The winds were howling through New York City like hungry dogs, and even the most suspicious of spurned spouses hadn't been desperate enough for the services of a private eye to make their way over for a consultation. Not that Charlie minded. He'd made good use of the afternoon, he decided as he wiped a last lipstick smudge off of his jaw.

But now it was time to head home. He had his favorite duty to take care of before making it in time to help his wife set the table for dinner, and he headed towards the NYC kindergarten just as the first strange trails of dust were making their way through the city. It was mostly nursemaids and cautious housewives who made their ways past the detective out of the kindergarten with their little ones in tow, but Charlie paid them no mind. He walked into the tidy little building, glanced around, then flashed a blinding grin as he heard an excited squeal accompanied by an impossibly small set of feet.

"Daddy!"

"Ah! Theah's my Dotty Rose!" Charlie crowed in his thick New Yorker's accent as he scooped up the little dark-haired girl who shared his cobalt eyes, turning his head from side to side so she could smatter his cheeks with kisses. Dorothy Rosa Wallenstein, his four-year old daughter, eagerly began telling him every detail of her school day (blocks, letters, and picture cards) as he carried her out into the increasingly windy street. 'Dotty Rose' had inherited her three names from the most influential people in bringing her into the world; her mother, her 'uncle,' and Charlie himself. And anyone who had ever asked the bright-eyed little thing about her unusual name was sure to get the count in her own telling.

Detective Wallenstein did not own a car (he had once, and it had been blown up by one of his early foes as a 'joke'), but he had always enjoyed the walk home with the little girl. Sometimes, after a day of sleuthing, chatting about a mean little boy who didn't know that the blue blocks went on top of the red blocks was a perfect release. Much better than a few hard drinks with the boys at a speakeasy. But today, the fierce winds were unusually powerful, and had the sting of speeding sand in its bite. It wasn't more than a block or so before Charlie had his Dotty Rose tucked against his chest, hidden by the folds of his trench coat to hide her from the 'mean old wind.' By the time he reached sight of the little blue-shingled house where he and his small family dwelled, he had to lean against the gale just to take a single step forward. The dust was now so thick in the air, he could barely see more than a few feet in front of himself.

Dotty Rose was squealing in dismay against his shirt, her latest macaroni masterpiece clenched in her frightened fist, but against the odds they finally made it in through the door. Charlie brushed the fearful tears out of Dotty's eyes, and even as the winds roared louder than ever, she brightened right up and raced off to the kitchen to tell her mother about her day. Charlie grinned, shook the dust off his coat and hat, and walked into the kitchen to give his secretary a kiss hello.




The insane storm passed through the night, and had faded by the morning. But it left behind a surprise--one which was splashed across every news rag worth its dime.

BEARNARD MUIRENN FOUND DEAD!

Benjamin Goldberg, thirty-four year-old political editor of The New York Times was asleep in his office. This was not an unusual occurrence; often had the unwary intern knocked at his door in the early hours of the morning, cup of strong black coffee in hand, thinking they would be garnering favour with their would-be employer only to be greeted with the view of the top of an unruly-haired head slumped against his typewriter. Or, worse still, an accusatory pale, sleepy-eyed glare that clearly informed the unwitting intruder that they had just woken him up and, any guilt he was now experiencing as a result of falling asleep in the middle of an important article would be transferred to the aforementioned intern in the form of grumpiness for the rest of the shift.

But, for once, his sleep was intentional. It had been one of the reporters in the newsroom down the corridor who had first broken Bearnard Muirenn's death and Ben (along with every other news hawk around at this ridiculous hour, not to mention a few who had been called up from home) had been frantically collating all the available information on the head of the notorious Muirenn family into something that would flesh out the story. Ben had finished a special editorial on the possible motives behind the killing and sent it downstairs to be set into print before he settled down to snatch a few hours of doss sprawled out on the floor of his office on a sofa cushion 'borrowed' from the lobby. There would be even more activity once the rest of the newsroom got in the next morning and if he didn't get forty winks in now, he wouldn't get a chance to sleep for another twenty-four hours.

It was gone seven o'clock in the morning when weak sunlight began to filter in past skyscrapers and through the dust-caked window. Ben, always a light-sleeper, muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and reluctantly opened his eyes. Sitting up, he stretched, the muscles in his neck protesting painfully at their uncomfortable night, and ran his hand through his dark hair. Normally, his first reaction would have been to reach for a cigarette but he soon remembered that there weren't any to hand. In fact, there weren't any anywhere in his office, nor back in his apartment in the East Village. A discussion with Jo (which had soon descended into an argument) had resulted in the two of them giving up their joint nicotine addictions in an effort to prove one was more strong-willed than the other. With a sigh, he stood up, brushed himself down and ventured out into the corridor in an effort to distract himself.

Jo. Josephine Levard; Ben's long-time on/off journo squeeze (for the last three years it had definitely been far more 'on' than 'off') had gone back to their shared apartment before the story had broke late last night. Ben, who'd stayed late drafting an article for an election special next week, had been around when the news had emerged and had been forced to contend with the ensuing chaos. Someone had called up Jo sometime in the early hours of the morning to come and pitch in but Ben had already been fast asleep by that point. It was with trepidation, then, that he cautiously pushed open the door to the newsroom, expecting to see a flame-haired head slumped on her desk or an acidic-tongued and exhausted-looking Jo asking him whether he'd had a nice sleep (though, being Jo, she would undoubtedly look as gorgeous and fresh-faced as if she'd just awoken from a Sunday-morning lie-in).

As Ben Goldberg made his way out of his office, the Editor's door open and out strutted none other than Josephine Levard herself: five feet and five inches (plus a notable few inches of heel) of ferocious female news hawk with a triumphant grin on her tired face. There was a man lingering impatiently at the door, waiting for his turn to go in and speak his piece over with Edison, and Jo's pale hand flapped at him carelessly. "You can go on in now, Kinney. Just don't take too long, Edison's got to clear that spot for my headliner tomorrow."

George Kinney, Jo's latest major competitor in the crime reporting staff, scowled furiously and stomped into the editor's office without a word in reply. Jo weaved her way victoriously through the mess of frantic reporters (the leeway they gave the fast-talking woman suggested that she had gotten first chat with Edison by way of her elbows) back to her desk, where her fingers began flying across new notes and inquiries from other journos with a speed to make an underground card dealer green with envy. It would have seemed plausible that she wouldn't notice Goldberg emerge, the way her deceptively soft green eyes were glued to her work. But she greeted him in her regular rapid-fire manner, even as she scratched lines off of a rough draft about Muirenn's early life.

"Well! Look who decided to join the living. Catch a few nice winks, Goldie?" Jo paused her flurry of work for just a moment to stand erect and flash a kiss against Ben's lips. She grinned, winked at him, and nodded towards Edison's office. "Kinney's getting his eyeteeth handed back to him about now. Piker actually thinks he could do up a better sketch of this Muirenn bit than me...Ha!"

Jo had a right to her staggering arrogance in the matter. She had been working at the Times almost twelve years now, and seven years ago, along with Ben, she had cracked the massive story regarding the Muirenn gang and their deep hooks into the city that had led to the death of then-mayor Coburn. Kinney had joined the paper about six months ago, and had moved into New York City from Boston. Sure, he was a good writer, but this was a matter of home turf.

"Awful nice of you to call me in, by the way," Jo scolded once she had finished (for now) her paperwork arrangement and stood up to serve Ben a full-on glare. Then she shoved a paper bag with a stuffed bagel in it into his hands. "See if I ever bring you breakfast again, ya bum."

IN: Lillian "Beau" Holmes

“Just one hit, Max, one, an’ they’d of been nursin’ busted heads for weeks.”

“Ain’t no use knockin’ ‘em ‘round when they’re they only ones on th’ entire eastern seaboard that sell good Amaretto. Just sayin,’ suh.”

Charlie Samuelson gave a rough grunt, smoke from his cigarette curling out of his nostrils. “Damn cocky arrogant sonsovbitches,” Chuck grumbled, his father’s Irish accent and his mother’s Southern twang making his voice a gruff, slurry drawl. “Shoulda just shot ‘em and took the stuff, ‘nstead of payin’ all that cash when it woulda been cheaper to get boat tickets an’ sneak it back ourselves.”

“Now, suh,” Max Jackson, a middle-aged man with a deep country tone, put his hands into the pockets of his brown coat. “That’d a been uncivil of ya. An’ we can’t afford no shootin,’ leastways, not now. Ya know that, Mistah Chuck.”

The man grunted, roughly shoving his hands into the pockets of his black trousers. Part of Chuck wishes he had just stayed in New Orleans where it had all began, rather than getting himself caught on the way to Boston and being cooped up in a Pennsylvanian penitentiary for six years. Gumbo and crawfish every night, easy access to a port and shipments of the Caribbean’s best rum, and booze that flowed from speakeasies like water from a hose seemed much more appealing than freezing winters, smartass liquor smugglers, and persistent Yankee dicks and bulls who had nothing better to do than make his job all the more difficult.

But no, if you wanted to make it big, you went up north along the Atlantic coast where the real money was made. European brandies, Irish whiskey, French wine, and gallons of beer from Canada and Detroit were accessed with ease from New England. And big was what Chuck’s whole organization was going to be; after three years of clawing his way tooth-and-nail into so much as minor notoriety, he had decided it was time to shoot for the stars and move everything up north of the Mason-Dixon line. Had his dad, a tough old cop born in southwestern Ireland, not died while he was shooting Germans in Europe with the Brits and the Frenchies, the old man would have been hunting his own son down himself.

A stroke of misfortune, however, prevented Chuck from making it to where he knew the money was to be made. Some wet-behind-the-ears cop no older than he was at twenty-five had recognized his picture from a wanted poster he had seen while vacationing in Baton Rouge had arrested him while he was eating at a diner in Pennsylvania. It took only a few days to find clear evidence of his bootlegging and his trial had been one hell of a quick one. Guilty, six years in prison, no parole. Needless to say, much of his resentment towards the police stemmed from his sudden capture and his bitterness of having to sit out on much of the 1920’s.

By the time he had gotten out, his widowed mother was still living in Atlanta and was still suffering from memory loss, his oldest brother was a cop in Chicago just like pa had been in Atlanta, and the middle brother was a lunger, wasting away of tuberculosis in some Sanatorium outside of Louisville, Kentucky. And what was worse, his entire operation had crumbled somewhere between Tennessee and Massachusetts, and had been rebuilt by some uppity New York trash and had moved everything to the Big Apple.

Thinking back on it, Chuck knew that his biggest problem had been being too nice, starting with that cop. Instead of going peaceably, he should’ve just drilled the little shit in the head with his gun on the way to the car. So, when he went to New York to find the arrogant sons of bitches who had swiped everything he had fought tooth and nail for to create, he wasn’t going to be lenient.

It hadn’t been hard, killing off the lot who had taken advantage of his captivity. What had been hard had been cleaning up the mess afterwards so that if any bulls or dicks came sniffing around his door, it’d be shut, locked, and bolted. No use getting life for murder when you just got out for dealing liquor, he thought. But a year later, and now everything was going well, considering the economic state of the country. However, that meant that more cops and detectives would be all over his case in a heartbeat to earn their wages if something even smelled funny in his neck of the woods. Had he killed a cop? Yes. Would he do it again? Hell yes. If they came barking up the wrong tree-

“Uh, suh,” Max’s country drawl pulled Chuck from his thoughts, and the younger man stopped and blinked.

“Was’a matter?” Chuck asked as he followed the man’s worried gaze to a smaller, balding gentleman with a round face and tortoise-shell glasses sitting on a bench. And more importantly, to the newspaper with a headline so big it was nearly taking up half the front page.

BERNARD MUIRENN FOUND DEAD!

Chuck took two giant steps and snatched the newspaper from the stranger’s hands, eliciting a startled yelp from the man. The bootlegger’s eyes scanned the page, his lips moving faintly as he read the words to himself. He tore the paper open and began reading the full body of the story inside, holding the gray ink-covered paper close to his face. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered finally. “Someone beat me to the punch.”

Max stepped up behind the younger man, pausing before asking hesitantly, “Is this, uh…bad, suh?”

Chuck gave an amused snort and he took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it onto the sidewalk. “Not at all, Max. Seems like things jus’ might be gettin’ interestin’.” He ignored the small man who was giving him a frightened and perplexed look and crumpled up the newspaper. “No doubt some dicks will be knockin’ on some doors soon. Heh,” he gave a dry chuckle before smashing the remnants of his cigarette under the heel of his shoe. “This certainly will be one helluva day.”

"Huh," said Ben, grinning at her kiss. "Well, at least Kinney's got moxy even if he ain't got brains." The kind of moxy that would take him far, so long as he didn't come up against Jo Levard writing about something she had experienced first hand; more comparable to a force of nature than anything else.

Opening the paper bag to retrieve his breakfast, Ben was pleased to find a stuffed bagel from, if he wasn't mistaken, his favourite deli a couple of blocks over. Taking a hefty bite, he shrugged.

"Fine, Levard," he said, through a mouthful. "The late edition was already printed by the time you got in, anyway... But next time I will wake you up at one o'clock in the damn morning and deny you those precious few hours of sleep before Edison starts yelling. Mm, this bagel is really good... Thanks," he added, seguing a potential argument seamlessly into something more harmless.

Ben's breakfast disappeared within seconds and, once finished, he dropped the paper bag into the wastepaper basket and pulled on his coat.

"I'm heading down to see if Wallenstein's got any insider info on what the bulls are thinking, wanna come with? I'm pretty sure Edison won't notice as long as your draft is on his desk; his ear's been glued to the phone all morning. And all night," said Ben, picking her coat up from the back of her chair and holding it out for her to slip into with a gesture of mock chivalry.

Charles Wallenstein, once enemy and rival for the affections Dorothy Byrd (now, Dorothy Wallenstein- Ben had lost out on that one) had now evolved into something different. As the tie between he and Dorothy had painfully unwound, a new one had formed (or perhaps, been finally tied) with Jo, he and Wallenstein became reluctant mutual informants. Then, oddly and uneasily, friends. That probably had something to do with the fact Ben was now unofficial 'uncle' to the Wallensteins' daughter, having been on hand to rush Dorothy to the hospital when she'd gone into early labour.

If Wallenstein had information on Muirenn's death, Ben was certain he could get it out of him somehow. And not only that, there were a half-dozen Mary Jane candies with Rosie's name on them wrapped up in a paper bag in his pocket. Plus, there was something he wanted her opinion on.

---

There was a chill outside. The summer breeze ruffled the fur collar of Sofia's coat as she pulled it up to her chin and stepped out of her cab with practised ease. She clicked across the sidewalk to where a young uniformed doorman was waiting to let her into the back of the theatre through the stage door. Smiling beautifully at him, Sofia held up a five dollar bill with the air of someone handing over their jacket to a cloakroom attendant. The young man took the bill, dumbstruck, then watched as she walked away down the corridor, a blush rising to his acne-blemished cheeks.

The warren of walkways, rooms and corridors backstage were maze-like but Sofia had been here before and instinctively let her feet take her in the direction of the performers dressing rooms, ignoring the surprised second-glances of stage-hands as she passed by. Of course, it was necessary that she had taken care not to drawn attention herself when entering the establishment. Arriving twenty minutes after the show had ended and entering through the back door eliminated the possibility of a theatre-goer witnessing her visit. Burlesque had evolved into something more risqué since the its heyday in the last decade and if the authorities ever decided to raid this place... Well, it would simply not do to have been seen inside, however tame the front-of-stage antics here were compared to the parties and back-stage activities of Broadway.

"Hello? Yes, please excuse me, I'm looking for the dressing room of Miss Holmes?" she said, her words sugar-crisp and falling from an immaculately scarlet-rimmed mouth. The stage director turned around in surprise and answered automatically.

"Er- What? Oh, just on the left around the corner. Who- Hey, aren't you Sofia D'Elia-?" But she was around out of sight by the time he'd managed to force the words out.

She rapped daintily on the door to Lillian's dressing room and, without waiting for an invitation, turned the handle and walked straight inside.

"Lillian, how are you?" said Sofia, taking her coat off and hanging it on the back of door to reveal a canary-yellow evening dress. She was obviously on her way to something more formal after this engagement. "Oh, are you tired? You look dreadful; your make-up's all over the place. I can't stay for long but I've brought you some news. You know that director I said I'd speak to. Well... I spoke to him." A nostalgic smile overcame her features for an instant. "And you've got the part! Rehearsals for the chorus line begin tomorrow."

"Oh, you know just what to say to a girl, Goldie!" Jo grinned expansively as she eagerly slipped into the proffered coat. She flipped her red curls out from under the collar, grabbed her bag, then seized Ben's arm and led the half-jog over to the elevator. When news was as fresh and hot as the Muirenn murder, Jo was never one to take her time. They reached the elevator doors before Jo's desk neighbor even noticed that she had gotten up.

"I'll bet Wallenstein's all balled up about this. I mean, the Muirenns are like his pet peeves, right? You remember how steamed he was when Bearnard got that slap-on-the-wrist fine for his part in the setup?" Jo rambled as the elevator doors pinged shut, and she casually wiped a smudge of ink off of Ben's chin (or at least smeared it enough that it blended with his stubble). Her words were true enough; Charles Wallenstein, or 'Bad Luck Chuck' as many knew him, had a long-standing history with the Muirenn Clan, both during and after their greatest moments of power. In particular, he had held a vehement grudge against Fiona Muirenn, professionally known as Lady Luck in the underworld, and who had seven years ago taken a swan dive off of a ferry bridge into the frozen river...it had been the symbolic beginning of one era and the ending of another. Lord only knew how many hours Chuck had invested in researching his pet foes.

The chances of finding Wallenstein at home at this hour were about as high as the chances of finding a bluebird in a cuckoo's nest, so it was towards the private dick's office that the taxi was steered. The wind outside was no longer kicking up massive dust waves, but it was strong enough that Jo had to hold onto her favorite hat to keep it from being carried off to the horizon. But aside from a bit of difficulty in keeping her skirt at a modest level, the trip to Wallenstein's office was mostly uneventful. The door to flat 22B was opened, and there was Wallenstein himself, crouching over his desk to carefully examine a number of photos and notes, which he quickly covered up when he realized he had guests. As with most Saturdays, there was a tiny girl jumping up and down on old sofa in the short hall meant as a sort of waiting room. The girl squealed with excitement at the appearance of the two journos, leaping off the sofa with the clear expectancy of being caught. "Uncle Ben!"

“All finished with these coats Miss Maggie.” Jamie MacDowell said with a cheerful grin to the patroness of Wilkinson’s Fashions, who returned it with a much more wary one. For a woman of only 32, Maggie Wilkinson seemed to have too many lines on her pretty face. And unfortunately, these days, she wasn’t the only one.

“Ah thank you Jamie, you can bring those over here.” Maggie said, tagging and hanging some of the dresses she’d just finished up on the rack. Jamie was quick to follow suit and do the same with the coats she’d just done.

“You really are a big help Jamie, your pay for this week’s work is on the back table.” Maggie continued on, though wouldn’t look up from the rack. That was never a good sign, and the nervous tick in her cheek didn’t help that either.

“Why thank you Miss Maggie, you know I appreciate the work. Will you be needing me back in next week?” Jamie said, despite the overwhelming feeling she wasn’t going to like what Maggie was going to say next. The guilt heavy sigh she heard next almost totally confirmed her suspicions.

“Oh Lord knows I’d like the help Jamie, and you’re a good hand with a needle, I just can’t afford to keep anyone on for a while. Maybe…maybe in a month or two…things’ll pick up.” Maggie went on, obviously unhappy with how she was putting Jamie out of work, but had no other option. This was however, far less distressing to Jamie than Maggie might have thought, as this was about the fourth time she’d heard the same thing, and she always had her fall back; dice. Whether she’d inherited the skill from her mother, or she was just really lucky, Jamie had never lost a penny playing dice, and it was a talent she’d used to profit with more than once. Her poor granny Heather would probably have a heart attack if she knew Jamie had paid more than one bill with money she’d won through gambling, but then Jamie had always endeavored to never give her Gran the slightest nibbled of a clue.

“Oh don’t you worry sugar, you just wait ‘till this yank cold of your’s sets in, and whether they want to or not, they’ll be comin’ in for warmer clothes. You just be sure ta call me when that mob shows.” Jamie said with a confident grin as she put her own light brown, slightly patched, coat on and picking up her weekly pay before braving the increasingly bizarre weather.

IN: Lillian "Beau" Holmes

The tiredness of her face suddenly almost disappeared, a warm flush rushed through her entire being as Sofia spoke those words like it seemingly meant nothing big to her. Lillian had waited for this chance for quite sometime now, only working her way from down here to up where the stars resided - something she wanted so very much, could only be achieved taking one task at a time. And here she was, the glitzy diva, the oh so wonderful Sofia D'Elia. All dressed up in the finest there probably was. And of course, she had to make that sly remark about her current state - how she wished to lash back with something but right now she needed her, and for that fact alone she'd sit there silently and smile.

Getting up from the chair, she threw Sofia a 'grateful' smile ... "I can't believe you went through so much trouble for me, I really owe you" her voice full of adequate gratitude. Even though it was just a chorus line, she told herself - if she could only manage to set herself off from the rest she'd get her break onto bigger things soon. Holding on to her mantle, she walked over to the dresser and picked out her daily attire, "If there is anything I can do to reimburse you, please don't hesitate to ask." All the while she had kept a close eye on her, not that she was someone who mistrusted people, but in general - in this life no one did anything for anyone for free, there was usually always something else.

Setting down her clothes just next to her makeup table, she sat back down and started to take off the rest of her stage facade. The Director seemed to have accepted her request without much effort, Grinning at her through the mirror, "Sofia - you look amazing, that dress suits you just perfectly - May I ask where you are headed to?", taking off the rest of her make up, she turned around in the stool she was sitting on, now completely facing the dazzling actress.

Meanwhile, in New Orleans...



It was about three degrees above a breeze from hell. A normal Saturday in the Big Easy, with the clipped sound of insect wings flitting from tree to tree outside. In a large manor house on the outskirts of the city, a little girl had her tongue poking out from between her lips as she twisted a puzzle box around on its hinges. Her hair was as white as any organic material could be, and tied into two little tails around her shoulders. Her eyes were an impossible blue; like a flash of lightning across a purple sky. She was four years old, and as the puzzle box clicked into its proper heart-shape, she emitted a triumphant yelp.

"Momma!" The little girl leaped to her feet, and raced across the carpeted floors into the next room over. Sitting at a coffee table with her shapely legs crossed and a news paper before her face was a woman with the same hair and eyes as the little girl. "Momma, look!"

The paper was lowered, and the woman flashed a smile that had once been infamous in rouge. Now, it was simply proud. "Well! Alzophine, you brilliant little tomato! Give us a look, then."

The woman scooped her daughter up onto her lap (the girl giggled with proud glee and leaned her head against her mother's chest) and took the box from her with the silent promise that it would be returned. "I honestly thought this one would be too difficult for you!"

The girl eagerly shook her head, full to the brim with self satisfaction. Her eyes grew round with anticipation as her mother's careful hands eased the hinged lid of the box open. Then out came a small golden chain: a necklace with a minute locket on the end. Alzophine clapped her hands once more, now grinning a crooked grin all across her small face, as the necklace was handed over. She opened the locket as carefully as she could with such pudgy little hands, and pointed enthusiastically at the two pictures inside: One featuring the girl herself and a small dark-haired boy, the other with her mother and a roughly handsome man. "Dat's me! Dat's Prime! Dat's Papa! Dat's you, Momma!"

"That's right, Zo. Do you like it?" The girl's mother grinned and helped fasten the necklace around her neck.

"Oui! Dis is tres bien, Momma! T'ank you!" The girl squealed, throwing her arms around her mother's neck as the woman laughed and returned the embrace. Then she slid down to the floor, snatching up the puzzle box. "I'mma go an' show Papa!"

And in the blink of an eye Alzophine had disappeared from sight, off to find her father (and morel likely than not her brother) so that she could show off like a proper Bruyere. Her mother smiled and shook her head as the girl's happy peals for attention rang out through the house, and returned to her paper. She flipped the page, over to the nation-wide section. Her eyes swept across the mention of a high-profile murder in New York City. Pause. They swept back. They read ever word, digested every syllable. And then again.

The paper slipped page by page from nerveless fingers as the woman, Fiona Bruyere, felt her arms fall numb by her sides.

"So long as you know how lucky you are, Levard," shot back Ben, as Jo dragged him across the newsroom at a pace that was practically a run. Having spent most of the night working on the Muirenn story, the initial surge of adrenaline had worn off sometime around two o'clock in the morning. But somehow, Jo's fresh-faced excitement encouraged him and he let himself be led into the elevator imagining what revelations the Muirenn-obsessed Wallenstein might be able to give them.

At Jo's comment, he snorted. He did indeed remember. Fiona Muirenn's disappearance (for Ben believed it was a disappearance until proven otherwise, unless most of the authorities in the city) had rubbed Wallenstein the wrong way. Whatever he'd hoped to pin on the Irish gangster, whatever he'd been pursuing in regards to her and her business had been left hanging. Ben was sure it was Muirenn's way, whether she was dead or not, of giving the finger to every enemy she had in New York.

Absent-mindedly rubbing at the phantom smudge Jo had wiped at in an uncharacteristically maternal way, the doors of the elevator opened to reveal The Times lobby and Ben stepped out.


After a walk through the city streets made entertaining by a strong breeze that seemed set on lifting Jo's skirt above her naval, Ben found himself entering the tiny flat that served as Wallenstein's office.

"Whoa, Rosie!" said Ben, catching her easily and swinging her around before placing her back onto the floor. His 'niece' would always be Rosie to him. Her middle name was the name he'd given to her, and the name she always assumed in his head. Calling her Dorothy (which, to Ben, was her mother's name and did not belong to the daughter, however much her mannerisms or delicate features reminded him of her) or Dotty as Wallenstein tended to sounded forced when it came from Ben's lips.

"Psst," he said, sotto voce, taking a piece of yellow-wrapped candy from his pocket and handing it to the four year-old surreptitiously. "Why don't you and I eat some Mary Janes on the sofa whilst Auntie Jo and your papa talk about boring business stuff in the office, huh?"

---

"You're welcome, Lillian," said Sofia with perfect graciousness. "But anything you could do for me? Oh, no, don't be silly. But I'll try and remember," she added, as if humouring an offer from a child.

After idly watching the other woman take off her make-up for a few moments, Sofia turned around to examine the inside of the dressing room. She drifted to the opposite wall, picking up a small wooden clock and running her fingertips around the outline of its face, turning over a discarded feather headdress in her delicate hands, all with a absorbed tactility.

At Lillian's compliment, she span around and smiled a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, smoothing down the canary-yellow beaded silk over her stomach and hips.

"Thank you! I'm going to Edgar Stuart's- that's the director of the play, of course- apartment on the Upper East Side, he's having a soiree to celebrate the end of casting and- Say, Lillian..." she said, suddenly interrupting herself and shifting her heavy-lashed gaze over to the younger woman. "I think it would be simply fabulous if you came! Do you have something to wear?"

She went over to the wardrobe in the corner of the room and opened it, tugging out its contents experimentally.

"Ooh!" Rosie straightened from where she'd been hugging Jo's legs. Her dark blue eyes brightened as she clasped her hands together and bounced on her feet. Clearly, what the girl needed was more sugar in her system. She clambered back up onto the sofa, and busied herself with hefting the pillows out of the way so Ben could seat himself beside her. "You can sit here, Uncle Ben! An' later, do ya wanna see what I painted in school?"

Jo grinned and shook her head, leaving a kiss mark on both of their foreheads. "Rosie, just make sure you eat more than Uncle Ben does. I don't want him spoiling his supper."

It was always a sort of bitter sweetness when Jo saw Ben performing his 'uncle' duties with Rosie Wallenstein. On the one hand, it was no secret that she longed for some sort of family life of her own. The last time she and Goldberg had called it quits 'for good,' it had been over an argument regarding the possibility marriage. She had, in a foolish fit of determination to prove she didn't need Goldberg for those plans, become engaged to another man. After an unusual burst of proactivity on Ben's part, the engagement had been called off and the two news hawks had moved in together. Jo had taken a lesson from the whole matter: she had never since then argued, nagged or even suggested without provocation any familial developments between them. But that hadn't stopped her wishing. And seeing Ben enjoying himself with a cute little girl (one belonging to his former love interest, no less) always tugged at her heartstrings in both directions.

But now wasn't the time to be lingering in the hallway with a hangdog look of mixed feelings. Jo flashed one more smile at the candy-eaters, then slipped into the office where Wallenstein was still looking up with one brow cocked. Jo set down her bag, removed her hat, and grinned. "Top of the morning, Chuck!"

"No." Charlie sat back down at his desk, swiping one hand across his eyes. Jo frowned, tilting her head in exaggerated confusion.

"No? Whatever do you-"

"Jo. I don't have this fancy desk an' this great big office 'cause I'm a palooka. I'd bet half my house an' all my horses that I know what you're thinkin' right now."

"Well, good Lord! Don't say it out loud, your daughter's just right over there!"

Charlie rolled his eyes, and nodded towards a paper that was tucked into a waste bin. "Bearnard Muirenn, right? I don't know from nothin' about the case. So don't even ask. The last thing I need is-"

"Public glory for helping bring to light the truth about such a travesty?" Jo smiled, taking the seat in front of the desk. She roved her pale green eyes pointedly over the recently covered up files. "A man with such a serious mug shouldn't make jokes, Chuck. Come now, you've probably got the prints off the weapon and a signed confession by the killer already."

"You think I'd go outta my way ta get justice for a Muirenn?" Charlie scowled and sat back in his seat. He had worked beneficially with Goldberg and Levard on enough cases that he'd lost count by now, but the Muirenn case...it had put him in a foul mood. And not just because his lack of a policeman's badge meant there was virtually no way he'd get a foot in on the case.

It was all over the papers. Chuck had spoken to a close friend from Detroit who supplied him with the best damn Cognac he’d ever tasted, and it was big news up there as well. People were talking about it on the street, men standing huddled around wrinkled newspapers, women gossiping in hushed voices, coppers muttering to each other and casting every suspicious looking character even more suspicious glances. The whole of New York was in a hum of activity over Muirenn’s death.

Chuck loved it.

It could’ve only been better had he done the man in himself, though it would have been one hell of a mess to clean up. He would have had to retrace his steps five times over to make sure he hadn’t left any clues, nothing for the nosy dicks to pick up and lead back to him. It would’ve been difficult, but worth it. A smirk crossed his face as he leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on his desk. So someone else had been gunning after Bernard Muirenn. It definitely made his job easier, but at the same time, it brought up a whole other slew of questions.

For starters, who had actually killed him? There had to have been at least a hundred gangsters and bootleggers who wanted him dead, out of the way so his turf would be open for an incursion. That would pose a bit of a problem for Chuck and his operation, but it was nothing that couldn’t be taken care of. Part of him wanted to just sit back and wait for everything to play out, either for the gangs to kill each other off or for the cops to do the work themselves.

But another part of him was curious. What was this guy’s game? Sure, Muirenn was cold and dead, but who else was going to get whacked as well? The question had been posed earlier by Max, but the older man had always been more pessimistic than his boss. Chuck was supremely confident that he and his men could take whatever was dished out, and give it back threefold.

A knock pulled the man from his thoughts as Max walked into the makeshift office of the warehouse building. The warehouse was set in an industrial area of the Bronx near the waterfront on Halleck Street. A damn good and easy way to get the liquor in from the dock quick and clean, without risking driving all over with a car loaded with European booze.

“Ah, Max,” Chuck grinned, taking his feet off the desk and sitting upright. “What’ve ya got?”

Max gave a displeased look. The news was still relatively fresh, and already the older man was being a sourpuss about it. “Gotta party t’night. Uppa East Side, some Broadway cast shindig. Gonna take stock an’ make the delivery.”

Chuck stood up, pulling on a suit jacket from the back of his chair and putting his fedora on his head. It was still relatively early, but the farther ahead of time they could get the booze to wherever it needed to be, the farther away they would be if the cops busted up the party. “Well, I think I’ll accompany ya.”

Taking stock was easy; the socialites typically ordered a hell of a lot of only a few things, so it was easy to keep count as the crates were loaded onto the back of the Ford 1926 Model T truck. A couple of pieces of furniture and identical crates filled with various fragile items like lamps and such, and they had turned a truck full of liquor into a public storage facility’s delivery truck. It was a clever ruse, not exactly original, but they’d never been caught.

Chuck sat in the passenger seat, letting Max drive. It was silent for most of the drive, until the older man scratched the back of his head and asked, “So how d’ ya plan on handlin’ this?”

“This?”

“Yeah,” Max diverted any potential eye contact as Chuck looked over at him. “Muirenn.”

“Oh,” Chuck replied, scratching the thin scruff on his chin thoughtfully. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?” The older man sounded incredulous.

“Not really. Who said we had to do anything?”

“Awright, then, mistuh,” Max snapped uncharacteristically, his hands gripping tighter on the steering wheel. “Jus’ what’re we gonna do when th’ cops start sniffin’ ‘round for answers?”

Chuck laughed as his thoughts pulled him back to New Orleans. Back when he’d been a rookie bootlegger, he had gotten hoodwinked into working with the cops for a “get out of jail free” card. While he hadn’t particularly enjoyed it, save for yanking the chains of the dicks who took his humorous jabs far too seriously, it had been interesting. It gave him a chance to see how lawmen solved the cases, and more importantly, how to keep from getting caught himself.

But New York and The Big Easy were two very different places. There was something about the dicks and bulls up north in Yankee country that made Chuck both crave the challenge and fear it. They played hard-ball, plain and simple, and didn’t give up. He’d been brought in for questioning by them twice before, and they were a breed of their own. Working with or against them to find out what the deal was with Muirenn’s untimely demise would, in any case, be interesting and fun.

“Why, Max,” Chuck grinned, putting a cigarette in his mouth. “We do what any good, honest, law-abidin’ citizens would do. Offer up what help we can.”

"Sure I do, Rosie," he said, pulling a face for her benefit as Jo kissed the both of them on the forehead and settling down into the deep cushions that She had thoughtfully rearranged for him. Digging into his pocket, he took out an entire bag of Mary Janes and emptied them onto the sofa between them in a shower of bright yellow. He selected one for himself (leaving the rest for the four year-old; Ben preferred coffee to candy) and waited until the door behind them had shut and Charlie and Jo had gone inside the former's office and, importantly, out of hearing.

It took him longer than it might have normally done for him to unwrap the sweet. Eventually, he gave up and put it, half-unwrapped, onto the arm of the sofa, realising the child sitting opposite him was probably wondering if Uncle Ben had gone mad.

"Now I need your opinion on something, Rosie, but it's a secret, so you can't tell anyone about it. Not even your mommy, OK kiddo? At least, not until, well-"

He paused and, from the other pocket (the one which hadn't contained a bag of candy until a few moments ago) withdrew a pouch. It was small, fitting easily into Ben's palm, and made from faded black velvet with an ornate white glass button that served to fasten it closed. He slipped the button out of its loop with fingers that trembled almost imperceptibly and, from the embrace of the velvet, withdrew a ring.

It was obviously made well before the turn of the century from its style. A band of yellow gold was drawn up at its apex into a filigree that surrounded an oval-cut diamond. Nestled in the ornate pattern of gold were two opposing swirls of smaller diamonds that intertwined like snakes around the central stone. Though it had not been taken from its velvet pouch in over ten years, it glinted as if it had been cut yesterday. Ben held it out for Rosie to look at.

"What d'ya think? Think Auntie Jo's gonna like it?" he said.

At the mention of a secret, Rosie bobbed her head emphatically even as she crammed a Mary Jane into her mouth. She propped herself up onto her knees, and crossed a round finger in front of her heart, something she'd learned from her father. The idea of being in cahoots with someone--an adult that she loved and respected, no less--was an exhilarating one for such a youngster. Eyes brilliant with enthusiasm, she adopted a conspiratorial whisper. "I won't tell nobody, Uncle Ben! I promise!"

The little girl watched as the velvet pouch was withdrawn from her 'uncle's' pocket, one of her cheeks puffed out with the addition of the sticky mess in her mouth. When the ring was produced, her eyes grew even rounded and she attempted to make a cooing sound, but it was muffled by the candy. So she used the last few seconds of sugary bliss to give the jewelry a careful, critical eye; this was something her opinion was being sought out on, after all, and deserved proper justice. She hobbled forward on her knees, somehow not tripping on her skirt, and gingerly placed her tiny hands on either side of the ring, on top of Ben's thin fingers. After a moment, she swallowed and looked up at him with a grin.

"It's so pretty! I think Auntie Jo will like it a lot. But do you think you could find a pink one?" Rosie beamed down at the ring, envisioning it with a shiny pink band rather than the classic gold. And perhaps with pink stones, as well. But then, adults, such as Auntie Jo was, tended not to see the splendor in such things. Her father brought her mother pink flowers sometimes, but the rare times when he brought her home something shiny, it was always this same golden color. "No, maybe this one's better."

Giving a final assertive nod, Rosie gladly sat back on the couch. "Uncle Ben, is it Auntie Jo's birthday? Is that her present? Should I make her something, too?"



In the office, Jo had made some leeway with Dick Wally. It wasn't much, but at least he was talking about the case.

"Far as I can figyah, the buttons are gonna wanna keep this whole thing as quiet as they can," Charlie was saying, leaned back in his chair and toying with a ruler. "they ain't gonna want the new boys in town thinkin' they can step up an' take credit. But you can bet your-" he paused, glancing towards the door where his daughter was conversing with Goldberg, "-boots that they're gonna have every dick they got workin' on this one. Fella like Muirenn gets bumped off, even this long aftah his prime, it ain't not casual street mugging."

"Right, but what are the chances of them flapping their gums to the news rags about it? Major finds, that sort of thing?" Jo was leaning forward in her own seat, drumming her fingertips against her knees. It was the next best thing to taking out a cigarette in a single gust.

"Theah ain't no chance, Levard. If the Commish gets his way, this whole thing'll be swept into a one-inch column next to a grocery ad." Charlie spun the ruler against his index finger. He could have answered the next question preemptively, but thought it a bit more gentlemanly to let her ask.

"So what are the chances of getting you to look in on this...a little quip pro quo, you know?" Jo flashed a business-like wink, and Charlie rolled his eyes.

"I'll look in on it, sure. But I ain't makin' you no promises, Levard."

"You never do, and therefore have never broken one. You're an orchid, Wally."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine. You're a pill, Wally."

"Tch."

IN: Lillian "Beau" Holmes

Ben smiled as the child passed judgement on the ring. Rosie was the first person he'd shown his mother's wedding ring to since his intention had first begun to creep up upon him several months ago. He hadn't noticed at first; like a beach-goer trapped by a rapidly rising tide, it first lapped at his toes then, with bewildering speed, he'd been up to his knees, then his chest. Now he was in way over his head. He wasn't exactly sure what had made him overcome his uneasiness. He was still terrified, of course, but now the prospect wasn't so unthinkable as before. Perhaps it had been the conversation he'd had with Jo's father in the depths of their Upper East Side brownstone on Christmas Day. Perhaps it had been Dorothy, Wallenstein and Rosie. Perhaps it had been the (imagined) 'pregnancy' when he'd found the rattle belonging to Jo's nephew-to-be in their shared apartment and promptly spent the next four hours sitting on a park bench trying to sort the inside of his head out whilst Jo fretted back home.

Whatever the reason, Ben being Ben, had shown it to Rosie as a sort of insurance. She was a four year-old child after all and, as much as Ben valued her opinion, she had no real comprehension what what it meant, nor would she likely remember if she never saw her 'Auntie' wearing it. She wouldn't hold him to anything nor was he committing himself by showing her. At the back of his mind, he knew he was being cowardly but tried to ignore it.

"Nah, it's not her birthday. It's- Well, you know how your mama and papa are married? They live together, right?... And they have you? I'm gonna ask Auntie Jo to marry me. And when you do that, you have to give the other person a ring. Or else they might not say 'yes'," he added, with a grin.

"But it's a surprise, so you mustn't tell her..."

Glancing over through the partially-shut blinds behind them, Ben guessed that the conversation between Jo and Charlie was coming to an end. With a wink at Rosie, he slipped the ring back into the velvet pouch and, fastening it closed, shoved it deep into his jacket pocket.



"Of course," said Sofia, watching as the other woman delved into her wardrobe to retrieve a rather dated black dress and stepped behind a screen to put it on. She turned back to her cramped, flamboyant surroundings once again.

Sofia had taken an interest in Lillian a year or two ago, having seen her perform when a boyfriend (from a relatively long-lived relationship, which by Sofia's standards, was not long at all) had taken her to the burlesque once. At the time, she'd taken her on as a protege because it was the done thing. By most standards she was an established actress and of a 'certain age'. Opinions were becoming more modern, of course, but most women would have children at their ankles by the age of twenty-eight. As such, unmarried actresses were expected to devote their maternal attentions (as if Sofia had any) elsewhere and taken on an understudy, a younger actress to be helped up the slippery ladder that was show business. At least until they lost their footing on it themselves... And Lillian was talented. Not as talented as herself, but still talented. If Lillian did well then Sofia, her mentor, looked good.

It hadn't been her intention to invite her along to the party that evening. But, although she could easily lose herself in a laughing, flirting, skirt-shimmering, scarlet-lipped social whirl, the prospect of taking the younger woman along made it seem... Well, less hollow. And she would have an excuse not to spend too long talking to any one person.

"Oh, you must; he's been dreadfully kind," she said, knowing there was no double-meaning on Lillian's lips and smiling at the fact. "Why, thank you, Lillian," she added, as she caught her coat and pulled it elegantly on, walking out of the dressing room back the way she had come, not waiting to see if the other woman was following her.

The Cajun appeared through the door, holding his daughter with joy. "Oui, ma fille, c'est tres bien!" He couldn't believe where he was now, living with a wife and two kids. Matter of fact, itws still a bit of a mystery how this all came to be to him. He never would ahve guessed all those years ago that this would be the result of his actions. Certainly better than he imagined it would be. "Fi, ma cherie, where are you? I finished choppin' dat tre-"

Remy stopped, and examined the scene. His wife intently reading a paper, and rather quiet. He set his daughter down, patting her head. "D'accord Zo, go find Prime, see what he's up to." He calmly stepped over to Fiona, Alzophine running along behind him. He leaned over her, arms around her shoulder, and planted a kiss on hr cheek. "So what's da news, ma cherie?" He scanned the page she was on, recognizing a couple names, and spotting the words murder, gang, and other little details. "Aww... don't tell moi... Oh I'm sorry ma cherie."

He stood in place, searching the page for suspects, or if they had caught anyone for the crime.

To one simply skimming through the Times over some coffee, pausing to read only the truly gasp-worthy stories - Stock Market Crashes! Dust Storms Sweeping the Nation! - five little words, haphazardly added under a picture of Peter Petrezzo, owner of the Petrezzo Pizza restaurant chain, probably wouldn't mean much. In fact, even if they were noticed, they would be probably be dismissed just as quickly, much like the way one tends to ignore the credits of a film once the main actors have been listed. But to a certain lanky, brown-haired man, sitting at his desk with paper spread out before him, those five miniscule words were just as important as the fact that Sofia D'Elia was just hired for Edgar Stuart's latest play.

Photography by Marty Thompson, New York Times

Against all rules of professionalism, Marty felt a satisfied grin spreading across his lips. But then, he wasn't just Marty, not anymore. No, now he was Marty Thompson, professional photographer for the New York Times. He was half tempted to run down the aisle of the room and throw the paper down on one of his new colleagues' desks, and maybe even say some clever, triumphant line like they did in the films. In the interests of retaining his dignity, however, he remained planted in the small office chair. After all, he was a professional now. Well, sort of. Admittedly, a few strings had been pulled to get him this job - mainly by a certain pair of newshawks - but God knows it would've taken more than just a tiny, innocent bit of persuading to get an editor like Edison to hire an incapable photographer.

And who should come to rap impatiently on Marty’s desk but Edison himself, an impatient scowl lacing his features. “Thompson,” he said, his tone of voice unnaturally calm, “don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I…what-?” For a moment, Marty could just frown at the clearly impatient editor, his self-congratulating cut short. Finally, recognition dawned on him. He hastily stood up, offering an innocent, lopsided grin to his employer. “Getting to it, sir. And might I add that that color looks marvelous on you?”

Edison didn’t reply, but simply muttered something unintelligible before heading off to breathe down some poor intern’s neck. Still smiling, Marty pulled his jacket on. Apparently, the public did find Sofia D’Elia’s latest gig more important than Marty’s photography expertise. Through their seemingly limited sources, both innocent and shady, the Times had gotten wind of a party happening at the director’s posh apartment. A story was already in the works – Sofia D’Elia: A Star On the Rise – and all that was needed were some keen pictures to slap on the page. Usually, it wasn’t too difficult to get a few shots at these sorts of things. All he had to do was wait around outside the venue before the party, and snap one of whichever celebrity happened to be attending as they were entering. Most of them were too happy to have their pictures taken to make much of a fuss.

One taxi ride later, he was standing on the corner of Park Avenue, trying to look as innocent and discreet as possible while still keeping an eye on the entrance to one of New York’s most luxurious apartments. The sun was just beginning to sink below the city’s seemingly endless chain of tall, grey buildings, painting the sky shades of red, orange and pink. A cool, summer breeze rolled by, raising goose bumps on exposed flesh. With a sigh, Marty settled in for a long wait. From his experience-however limited that might be-he had found that starlets like Sofia D’Elia tended to abide rather sternly by the term “fashionably late”.