Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 1, 2016 10:23:38 GMT -5
Victor flicked a peel of white paint off the window frame as he peered out onto the road, which was barely lit by the orange halo of the flickering sodium-vapor street lights. A man ran across the street with a newspaper over his head, trying to deflect the rain, as a speeding taxi gave him a few quick honks as it swerved to avoid him. Vic took a drag on his cigarette, the smoke already clouding his small office.
He reflexively turned to the door as he heard the shuffling of feet and his receptionist calling out in a Brooklyn accent: "Hey! You can't go in there!" His hand clutched the grip of his fully-loaded .38 special Colt Police Revolver, which rested in his leather shoulder holster.
A man burst through the door, which had a large frosted pane of glass that bore the words: "Victor J. Springfield, Private Investigator." Victor automatically began to silently record his facial features... white, mid-40s, thin-rimmed glasses, hands that clearly never saw physical labor. He looked at Victor desperately before collapsing onto his desk, the unknown man's hat falling off his head and onto the floor.
Victor rushed to his side and pressed his finger's to the man's neck -- no pulse. Upon further examination, Victor found several bullet holes in his shirt, which were now leaking crimson blood onto his desk. Victor's receptionist stood in the doorframe, her hand over her mouth in shock.
"Call the ambulance!" Vic told her. She hurried off to her desk, plugging '911' into her rotary phone.
Vic took this time to examine the man's coat... no gun. He was caught unarmed. But what was of more interest was a yellowed envelope in the man's right front coat pocket.
Victor withdrew the yellowed envelope, which was packed thick with bills. Vic counted $1,000. It also had a small hand-written letter:
Beneath her name was a print of a woman's lips, probably Jane's, in lipstick.
"Sealed with a kiss." He said, looking down at the man. "Looks like the kiss of death."
A small piece of paper fluttered out of the envelope, which Vic didn't notice before. It was a stub... the record of a horse race bet. It was signed by Frank Marino, the bagman at a nightclub called Moretti's. Vic knew Antonio Moretti, the owner of the bar, all too well. Vic grumbled at the thought of going toe-to-toe with Moretti again as he collected his fee and put on his hat and raincoat.
"I'm going out!" He told his receptionist as she stared at him agape.
"Going where?!" She asked, shocked.
"Working on my new case." Vic smiled as he headed off for Moretti's.
---
The only thing driving harder than the rain was Victor's black 1952 Chevrolet Bel Air, as it pulled up to Moretti's. Victor pushed through the crowd in the nightclub, the air of which was thick with tobacco smoke. The partiers smiled and sipped the booze of their choice as Dean Martin crooned on the stage.
"When marimba rhythms start to play
Dance with me, make me sway
Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore
Hold me close, sway me more..."
Victor immediately homed in on Frank Marino, the portly fellow who sat at a small table in the back of the club. Marino ran the horse race gambling scene at Moretti's, and as rumor had it, he paid a kingly sum to the local police for them to turn a blind eye. All manner of illicit activities could be found at Moretti's if you looked hard enough. Victor had long suspected that Antonio Moretti had some kind of connection to the mob, although he could never prove it. Maybe Moretti was just a mid-level criminal. Either way, this place was trouble, and Vic knew that at least.
"Like a flower bending in the breeze
Bend with me, sway with ease
When we dance you have a way with me
Stay with me, sway with me..."
Marino smiled as Vic approached. "Hey Vic!" he said. "Want to place a bet? We've got 13/8 on Blue Lightning!"
Vic placed both his hands on the table and leaned forward. "You know I'm not here to place a bet, Frankie."
Marino scoffed. "Of course you're not. The only time you come around is when you want information, which I don't got, and even if I had it, you ain't getting it."
Vic pulled out a slip of paper -- the betting stub that he found on the dead man earlier.
"This look familiar to you?" Vic asked.
Marino looked it over and smiled. "I ain't see this before in my life."
"You're full of it, Frankie. That's your signature."
Marino laughed. "Anyone could have signed that, buddy. Why don't you bug off, get a drink, and enjoy the show?"
"Other dancers may be on the floor
Dear, but my eyes will see only you
Only you have that magic technique
When we sway I go weak..."
"I know that you know something about this Bob character. I'm going to find it out either way, so just give it up now."
Marino shrugged. "You're barkin' up the wrong tree, buddy."
Victor drew a crisp $100 bill from his coat. "Maybe you just forgot, Frankie. Maybe our good friend Mr. Franklin can refresh your memory about this Bob fellow."
Marino looked visibly uncomfortable as Vic noticed, for the first time, two men in black fedoras watching him from the back of the room. Marino slowly stood up and spoke in a low voice. "I'm not takin' your money Vic. Could be dangerous to both our healths."
Vic looked at him, trying to figure this man out. "I got you, Frankie." Vic stopped leaning on the table and took a deep breath. "I'm going to get some fresh air," he said loudly, "see you later Frankie." Without another word, Vic headed to the door that led out into an alley.
---
The two men in black followed just 15 seconds behind. One was old and grizzled, the other quite young -- must be in his early 20s, and new to the game. They looked at each other before opening the door, their hands on the grips of their Colt 45 semi-automatic pistols. They swung the door open, drawing their handguns and sweeping the alley with their eyes. Some trash cans... a few pieces of garbage floating around... a dumpster... but no Victor Springfield.
Just then, shots rang out in the darkness. The older man was caught directly in the left arm by a well-place shot from a 38 caliber revolver. The young man began to panic and fired his gun haphazardly, his bullets striking the red brick wall of the adjacent building. The older man immediately figured out where the shots were coming from... from the private investigator crouched behind the dumpster.
The older man returned fire, but his bullets merely pinged off the dumpster and ricocheted in the alley. Victor fired again, striking the older man in the chest and dropping him. The young man pointed his gun at Vic and pulled the trigger, but the gun only clicked -- it was dry.
Vic rushed the young mafioso, placing his 38 special to the man's head, barking orders at him. "Tell me who you're working for!"
The young man trembled and looked at Vic with wide eyes as...
"Lieutenant Springfield, your duty shift begins in thirty minutes."
Victor sighed. "Computer, pause program and save state." The young man froze, as still as a statue.
Victor took off his hat and coat and gun, and tossed them onto the floor of the alley.
"Don't worry, Moretti. I'm still coming for you." He laughed. "Computer, arch."
The other end of the alley turned into a familiar arch as Victor walked through it.
"Computer, end program."
He reflexively turned to the door as he heard the shuffling of feet and his receptionist calling out in a Brooklyn accent: "Hey! You can't go in there!" His hand clutched the grip of his fully-loaded .38 special Colt Police Revolver, which rested in his leather shoulder holster.
A man burst through the door, which had a large frosted pane of glass that bore the words: "Victor J. Springfield, Private Investigator." Victor automatically began to silently record his facial features... white, mid-40s, thin-rimmed glasses, hands that clearly never saw physical labor. He looked at Victor desperately before collapsing onto his desk, the unknown man's hat falling off his head and onto the floor.
Victor rushed to his side and pressed his finger's to the man's neck -- no pulse. Upon further examination, Victor found several bullet holes in his shirt, which were now leaking crimson blood onto his desk. Victor's receptionist stood in the doorframe, her hand over her mouth in shock.
"Call the ambulance!" Vic told her. She hurried off to her desk, plugging '911' into her rotary phone.
Vic took this time to examine the man's coat... no gun. He was caught unarmed. But what was of more interest was a yellowed envelope in the man's right front coat pocket.
Victor withdrew the yellowed envelope, which was packed thick with bills. Vic counted $1,000. It also had a small hand-written letter:
Bob --
I've got some sympathy for you, so take this $1,000 and find Victor Springfield. He's a private investigator on Spruce Street, downtown. If anyone can help you out, it's him. Maybe he can get to the bottom of this.
So don't say I never did nothin for you!
All of my love,
Jane
I've got some sympathy for you, so take this $1,000 and find Victor Springfield. He's a private investigator on Spruce Street, downtown. If anyone can help you out, it's him. Maybe he can get to the bottom of this.
So don't say I never did nothin for you!
All of my love,
Jane
Beneath her name was a print of a woman's lips, probably Jane's, in lipstick.
"Sealed with a kiss." He said, looking down at the man. "Looks like the kiss of death."
A small piece of paper fluttered out of the envelope, which Vic didn't notice before. It was a stub... the record of a horse race bet. It was signed by Frank Marino, the bagman at a nightclub called Moretti's. Vic knew Antonio Moretti, the owner of the bar, all too well. Vic grumbled at the thought of going toe-to-toe with Moretti again as he collected his fee and put on his hat and raincoat.
"I'm going out!" He told his receptionist as she stared at him agape.
"Going where?!" She asked, shocked.
"Working on my new case." Vic smiled as he headed off for Moretti's.
---
The only thing driving harder than the rain was Victor's black 1952 Chevrolet Bel Air, as it pulled up to Moretti's. Victor pushed through the crowd in the nightclub, the air of which was thick with tobacco smoke. The partiers smiled and sipped the booze of their choice as Dean Martin crooned on the stage.
"When marimba rhythms start to play
Dance with me, make me sway
Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore
Hold me close, sway me more..."
Victor immediately homed in on Frank Marino, the portly fellow who sat at a small table in the back of the club. Marino ran the horse race gambling scene at Moretti's, and as rumor had it, he paid a kingly sum to the local police for them to turn a blind eye. All manner of illicit activities could be found at Moretti's if you looked hard enough. Victor had long suspected that Antonio Moretti had some kind of connection to the mob, although he could never prove it. Maybe Moretti was just a mid-level criminal. Either way, this place was trouble, and Vic knew that at least.
"Like a flower bending in the breeze
Bend with me, sway with ease
When we dance you have a way with me
Stay with me, sway with me..."
Marino smiled as Vic approached. "Hey Vic!" he said. "Want to place a bet? We've got 13/8 on Blue Lightning!"
Vic placed both his hands on the table and leaned forward. "You know I'm not here to place a bet, Frankie."
Marino scoffed. "Of course you're not. The only time you come around is when you want information, which I don't got, and even if I had it, you ain't getting it."
Vic pulled out a slip of paper -- the betting stub that he found on the dead man earlier.
"This look familiar to you?" Vic asked.
Marino looked it over and smiled. "I ain't see this before in my life."
"You're full of it, Frankie. That's your signature."
Marino laughed. "Anyone could have signed that, buddy. Why don't you bug off, get a drink, and enjoy the show?"
"Other dancers may be on the floor
Dear, but my eyes will see only you
Only you have that magic technique
When we sway I go weak..."
"I know that you know something about this Bob character. I'm going to find it out either way, so just give it up now."
Marino shrugged. "You're barkin' up the wrong tree, buddy."
Victor drew a crisp $100 bill from his coat. "Maybe you just forgot, Frankie. Maybe our good friend Mr. Franklin can refresh your memory about this Bob fellow."
Marino looked visibly uncomfortable as Vic noticed, for the first time, two men in black fedoras watching him from the back of the room. Marino slowly stood up and spoke in a low voice. "I'm not takin' your money Vic. Could be dangerous to both our healths."
Vic looked at him, trying to figure this man out. "I got you, Frankie." Vic stopped leaning on the table and took a deep breath. "I'm going to get some fresh air," he said loudly, "see you later Frankie." Without another word, Vic headed to the door that led out into an alley.
---
The two men in black followed just 15 seconds behind. One was old and grizzled, the other quite young -- must be in his early 20s, and new to the game. They looked at each other before opening the door, their hands on the grips of their Colt 45 semi-automatic pistols. They swung the door open, drawing their handguns and sweeping the alley with their eyes. Some trash cans... a few pieces of garbage floating around... a dumpster... but no Victor Springfield.
Just then, shots rang out in the darkness. The older man was caught directly in the left arm by a well-place shot from a 38 caliber revolver. The young man began to panic and fired his gun haphazardly, his bullets striking the red brick wall of the adjacent building. The older man immediately figured out where the shots were coming from... from the private investigator crouched behind the dumpster.
The older man returned fire, but his bullets merely pinged off the dumpster and ricocheted in the alley. Victor fired again, striking the older man in the chest and dropping him. The young man pointed his gun at Vic and pulled the trigger, but the gun only clicked -- it was dry.
Vic rushed the young mafioso, placing his 38 special to the man's head, barking orders at him. "Tell me who you're working for!"
The young man trembled and looked at Vic with wide eyes as...
"Lieutenant Springfield, your duty shift begins in thirty minutes."
Victor sighed. "Computer, pause program and save state." The young man froze, as still as a statue.
Victor took off his hat and coat and gun, and tossed them onto the floor of the alley.
"Don't worry, Moretti. I'm still coming for you." He laughed. "Computer, arch."
The other end of the alley turned into a familiar arch as Victor walked through it.
"Computer, end program."