Tha Story
A steady click click click echoed on the wooden floor, followed by two sets of low shuffling. He could hear it from inside his office, and could almost sense the defiant nature of the first set of steps. He sat patiently, back to the door, fingers tapping in a triangle of impatience. Drifting in with the footsteps was the chitter of the ceaseless bickering that never seemed to stop when it came to his two right hand men and that skirt. The door to his office creaked open. Had he been turned that way, he would have caught the haughty swagger of hips saunter up to his desk. After a few moments, one of his bodyguards cleared his throat, �Boss-� He took his feet off the windowsill and slowly turned around, features shadowed in the wake of the large leather chair. �Youse two go check on Fatty an� make soah he ain�t seen nothin�.� Scarface took a quick exit, but he couldn�t help but notice that The Henchman took a quick glance at her, as if almost asking for permission to take his leave. After a slight nod from her, he, too, left the room. Nonchalantly she sat on a chair in front of him, ankles crossed, short black flapper dress hiked up her calf. A few moments of heated stares passed between them. �Well, well...� she began. �The Godfather beckons, and his goons delivah. Next time tell �em to take more care with such fragile baggage.� Fragile, he silently scoffed. Anything but. �Waddya want, Justin? I�ve got bettah things ta do.� �What, like standin� on the street cornah for a repeat a last night?� His blue eyes were as hard as ice, but his voice softened a bit. �Why didn�t ya tell me about last night, Moll? We woulda had our guys all ovah them Recon boys.� �You plannin� ta start a street war ovah me?� She asked coolly. �The Mafia doesn�t own me, Justin. So�s I get jumped out side a Fat Cat last night. So�s I get beat up a little. Nothin� worse than what I get heah. I go where da money goes. Steel jus� didn�t like my protest ovah not gettin� paid. Justin. Very few people knew his real name, much less had the guts to say it in spite. Most ended up at the bottom of the river with cement shoes. But this skirt was different. Known as �The Moll� to the underground world, she drifted between families with a law unto her own. He put up with it only because they had a history. �My boys been hurtin� ya?� He asked, a tight grip on the edge of the desk. Normally he didn�t worry. She had an operation all her own. It wasn�t so much as selling her body as selling information between rival gangs. However, no amount of makeup could hide the previous night�s bruises. �You know they don�t dare touch me.� Most broads couldn�t back up their mouths, but there was more to her than short skirts and feather boas. On her upper right thigh she always carried a Colt 45 on a garter, and a jeweled knife in her handbag. Mostly...mostly it was the way she carried herself. She maintained respect. His boys had her back as much as they had his. They�d be in shock to know how much he found was carried out under her name. �Ya missin� the point, Moll. We take care of our own. We can�t have the Recons thinkin� theys can invade our areas.� The edge came back into his voice. �So all I�s is is more leverage to ya? God fahbid I mean somethin� to ya?� She rose to her feet like a cat ready to pounce; though unable to hide the winces of pain from her encounter from the watchful eyes of the Godfather. She swept up an armful of her fox fur coat, red shade nearly matching her fiery hair. �Damn Irish broads an� their tempahs...� he mumbled as she waltzed out of the room. It was yet another timeless argument about the limits dames were expected to keep. Moll crossed the line between class and crass, it seemed to him. He didn�t expect her to be docile, but there was no way to talk any sense into her. Waiting to hear the clicking of her black stiletto heels die out, he then slammed his fist onto his desk, a resounding thud filling the room. �Nobody, but nobody, messes with tha Family.� *** Shadows drifted in and out of what seemed to be nothing but a large, decrepit old warehouse on the docks. If one listened closely enough, faint laughter floated into the night, mingled with the jazz beats of swing music. This was the Fat Cat, an underground liquor parlor in the throes of prohibition. Here gathered the night overlords-fathers of the mafia, along with their dames and boys, all looking for a night of rowdy drinking and dancing. For the most part, it was neutral territory. Depending on the strength of any family at any given time, respect was divided among the strongest. There were the usual brawls between rivals, but there remained a common goal to outwit the bulls, who never dared to break up even the wildest of parties. This was mob territory. While new powers came and went, the Godfather and his gang remained at the top of the hierarchy. Commanding the most reverence, the place was never to full to decline he and his the best table in the house. He let members of other families come and go as they pleased, to show he was in total control. The only local house that never had the nerve to show up was the Recon Family. Some weren�t sure if it was as much nerve as it was they were coming into their own standing, and had no use for the ostentatious show of the only gang in their way. It was said to be a sore spot to their Boss, known only as Steel. Heart as hard as the metal his name took after. *** Inside the Fat Cat, one would have no idea the bleak night even existed. Flappers flaunted themselves on bar and table tops, dressed in the gaudiest fashions of the day. Lounging at various tables were dangerous looking men in pinstriped suits and boulder hats. Music roared to every corner of the joint, the bands wailing away on their saxophones. Only the finest moonshine was served. Near the bar, Fatty Capone, kid of the gang, and nephew of Al himself, was eating up the advances of a half-drunken broad sprawled on his lap. She tickled his cheeks with her scarlet boa, laughing in high-pitched squeals as passer byres pinched her bottom. The Henchman, never more than an arm�s length away from the Godfather, stood in a long black trench coat behind his chair at the high table. Just outside the entrance to the main bar, Scarface sat on a chair cleaning his Thompson. Various members of the Family were positioned at the bar and other tables. The Godfather ignored the attention most dames poured on him that night as he contemplated what his actions were to be against Steel�s gang. He tried to convince himself the reasons were for the good of the Family, not just for some broad who�s loyalties lay with no one. That in itself was part of the problem. While The Moll was always careful not to let any of his information slip, last night showed just how easily she could be made to talk. All the faith in the world wouldn�t stop a brutal beating for information. Though she flitted between rivals, gangsters knew who they�d answer to if she came to any harm. Along with the rising power of Steel�s Family, a sparked temper at the wrong moment could start an all out war. A snap of his fingers brought the Henchman to his side. Besides being his right hand, he was also the Godfather�s best friend. Dark eyes seemingly to be permanently imbedded with anger and the desire to kill. An arsenal of guns never seemed more than a flick away from his hands. He made a strong ally and a deadly enemy. After a few instructions muttered in his ear, he turned toward the exit. A hand beckoned him back. �Why doncha take the kid with ya?� Justin nodded towards Fatty at the bar. �He�s been itchin� for some action.� In what seemed an instant, the Henchman was next to Fatty�s seat at the bar, passing along his instructions. The kid unceremoniously dumped the skirt of his lap. grabbed up his jacket, and they were out the door. *** On the other side of town lay the extravagant quarters of New York�s rising power. Gathered around a long table were the main figure heads of the Steel Family, arguing heatedly about what actions to take against those who had most recently gotten in their way. Steel himself sat at the head. Most of his boys resembled his own Italian features. Behind him nervously waited a few quivering dames, ready to answer his every beck and call. He ruled his streets with an iron first, and expected nothing less than perfect obedience from those under his power. He was in a foul mood after being unable to obtain the information he wanted from the Godfather�s broad. Even after he had Tony and his guys rough her up a little, she wouldn�t talk. He needed to know when and where they were sending out their next shipments of moonshine, so he could intercept the business. To his right sat one of the most feared men of the day, known as The Bomb. Although it seemed as if he was always smiling and making jokes, The Bomb had more knowledge of mass destruction than most others. The recent collapse of the south side�s bull headquarters was due to some quick rigging of explosives he�d set up after they�d refused to release one of Steel�s men on parole. Danny himself went up in the flames, but such was the price to keep your privacy. The Bomb enjoyed nothing more than mass panic. ** Sometime late into the night Tony burst into the door, eyes wild in shock. Before he could utter what had him in such a panic, Steel beckoned to a chair. �Sit down an� have a drink.� Ignoring the invitation, he brought up hands covered in blood. �They�s killed Benny!� (TBC...)
