Young Writers Society

Caroline felt like she was going to be sick as she rode to the police station. She spoke to no one, and no one spoke to her. Even though Detective Donaldson mainly wanted to inquire about Grant, she had a sickening feeling that more might come out in this questioning.

The police station was a sad, desolate place, rotting at the seams. There was nothing to do but sit and wait. One officer asked if she wanted coffee, which she agreed to. Caroline hoped that it would make her feel a little bit more alert.

Sophie was called first into Donaldson's office. Then, Aloysius. Then, Julian. Finally, the detective ushered to her.

"You, m'am."

"Me?" Caroline managed.

"Yes."

Caroline was shaking as she stood up. She hesitated at picking up her coffee, which she'd only taken a few sips of.

"You can take that in with you," Detective Donaldson assured her.

She picked up the coffee, followed Donaldson in, and took a seat. All Caroline knew is that she didn't like this place, and wanted to be back in the safety and comfort of the boarding house.

"Why so nervous, honey?" Donaldson asked her as she sat down.

"I'm not."

"If you have nothing to hide, then you shouldn't be," Donaldson reassured her half-heartedly. "Anyway, I'm hoping you can help my case."

Caroline nodded.

"Please state your full name," Donaldson instructed.

"Caroline Ruth Craig."

"Date of birth?"

"April 18th, 1909."

"Were you born here?" He asked.

Caroline shook her head, knowing she had to be truthful. "No. I was born in Green Bay, Wisconsin."

"How long have you been in Chicago?"

"Less than a year," Caroline said.

"What brought you here?" Donaldson asked. He was standing over her in an almost threatening way, or at least in a way that made it clear who had the power in this situation.

"Excuse me," Caroline said, taking a sip of her coffee. "What does this have to do with Grant?"

"I'm just trying to find out more information, Miss Craig."

"I ran away from home," Caroline explained, hoping Donaldson wouldn't press her further. "I didn't feel as though there was a life for me in Green Bay."

He nodded, and then he changed the subject. First, he asked her what he did for work, and she told him. Then, he asked how she knew Grant.

"I only met him a few days before he died." Caroline decided to leave out the part about how she'd been propositioned, figuring it would leave to more uncomfortable questioning. "I do know he was engaged to a worker in the pharmacy. Her name is Madeleine. I don't know her last name. She might know more."

Donaldson nodded. Caroline thought about how late it was and how tired she was and how she wasn't sure how she'd ended up here. Then, she was free to go.

477 words

Julian watched as Caroline exited the interrogation room. She sat down where the rest of them were grouped. They'd been discussing what exactly Donaldson had asked each of them. So far, it seemed like he'd stuck to most of the same basic questions, asking them their name, their connection to Grant and the speakeasy, their interest in investigating the murder... Still, Julian was anxious to compare what Caroline had been asked (and what she'd ended up sharing).

"So? What'd the detective grill you about?" He looked at Caroline expectantly.

"He asked me about what I knew. He wanted to know why I came to Chicago and how I knew Grant. I told him," Caroline said nonchalantly.

"I let slip that Grant's family was Greek and from Seattle," Aloysius informed Caroline, "I tried to catch myself but.. failed."

"It's nothing too bad," Julian commented. "He doesn't know about 722. Or Madeleine, I hope?" He looked curiously at Caroline and the others.

"I'm not sure what he knows," Caroline said quietly. "He made me very uncomfortable." She pursed her lips and shot her gaze down at the floor. Evidentially, she was not going to elaborate on this.

"I don't know what exactly happened, but somehow we always went off topic. It always seemed like Donaldson knew more than he was going to show us, " Sophie explained, "It seems so surreal..."

It felt like a cold shiver that came over Sophie, drowning her in a cool draught of water. She thought that this could only be a beginning. Possibly she would spend her future in prison, painting grey walls.

They fell silent as the door opened and Donaldson emerged. He faced them all, hands clasped in front of him. Julian was struck with how tired he looked, all of a sudden; when he was interrogating them, there was a sort of furious energy flickering about him, like the need to solve the case was a flame within him—now, he looked burned out. In the slowly fading light of day, Julian finally noticed Donaldson's rough stubble, unkempt hair, and under-eye bags, and he wondered how much this case was actually taking out of him.

"Firstly, thank you all for your cooperation," Donaldson began. "I do apologize for taking you away from your daily proceedings."

"Don't worry about it, detective. All I had today was work and, frankly, I don't mind missing it," Aloysius replied, trying to turn the conversation in a less-serious direction. To his dismay, but not surprise, it didn't work.

Sophie was glad that Aloysius answered, because she probably wouldn't have put it so kindly. Probably only because she was sceptical about Donaldson.

Ignoring the interruption, Donaldson continued. "I'd like to make one more appeal. I can't force you to tell me anything, of course, not without hard evidence, but am I correct in saying we want the same thing here?" No one replied. Donaldson cleared his throat. "The murder solved. I'm sure you all are eager to return to your normal lives. And as much as I hate involving civilians in a case, I fear that I might not be able to solve it without your help. Again, I'm not forcing you to tell me anything, but"—Donaldson took a deep breath, evidently reluctant—"it might be best if we... worked together."

Julian looked around at the others. He could tell they were all teetering on the edge of indecision, just as he was. Should they tell Donaldson about the one true clue they recieved, the 722, and accept his offer to team up? Given their earlier conversation while Donaldson interrogated them independently, he knew Donaldson didn't know about the mysterious number. A small voice in his head told him that Donaldson might be a valuable perspective to have on the number, since none of them had had any luck. Still, he was conflicted.

Caroline spoke first. "We searched his apartment the other day, in the hopes of finding something." She stopped speaking at that point, hoping that one of the others would pick up the story.

"I found a planner in his rather empty office," Aloysius said, looking around to understand whether or not the others wanted to reveal 722, "It had some things written in it."

Sophie listened up.

Julian finally bit the bullet, purposefully avoiding the others' stares. When they'd told Donaldson this much, it felt wrong not to share the fulll story. "One of those things was a number. 722. Over and over on several days."

They continued telling the rest of the story, going briefly over their attempts to decipher it.

"I thought it marked a time," Aloysius said, "Like a time when Grant took a walk or met with some one or.. did something. But I figured 7:22 was too specific, and it didn't have an 'a.m.' or 'p.m.' behind it."

Donaldson listened to the full story attentively, eyebrows fluctuating with each turn. "Curious," he said. "And you said this number appeared several times in Grant's calendar?"

Julian nodded. "We haven't had much luck in figuring out what it means, though," he explained.

"Could it be a date?" Donaldson asked.

"I don't think it's a date," Caroline said firmly, avoiding Donaldson's gaze.

"A Bible verse, then? A price?"

Julian shrugged. "We looked into it. Couldn't find anything that made much sense. But we have a feeling it does tie into the murder, somehow. It was just that only Grant could clearly discern its meaning."

Donaldson frowned. "Hmm. Interesting." There was silence for a few moments as he scribbled something down in his notes. When he looked back up, Julian noticed that the vigor during the interrogation had slowly returned to his face.

"I did find a letter," Caroline said. "It was a love letter, from Madeleine Roy to Grant. It was very.... explicit." Everyone turned their gaze to her, which evidently made Caroline uncomfortable. "Madeleine... she works at the pharmacy and she'd told me before thaat she and Grant were engaged. Anyway, I'm not sure if it even meaens anything, but it's something. I thought 722 could have referred to her. But I'm not sure."

Donaldson acknowledged the addition. "I have a proposition," he said.

Julian leaned forward in interest. He hated to admit it, but he was slightly warming to the detective. And he did have a point, didn't he? They were all working towards the same thing, even if Donaldson was a little stuck up. "Do tell."

"See, I've been investigating some other leads," Donaldson started. "I too went to his apartment and discovered some papers from two speakeasies: the Chisel Club and Baile Mhic Andáin-" he stumbled over those words "-it's an Irish speakeasy."

Julian involuntarily rolled his eyes. The amount of times he'd heard the name "Chisel Club" from Doyle's lips was too many to count, always said in the same contemptuous tone. Doyle believed that the Golden Vanderbilt and the Chisel Club were each others' worst rivals, when in truth, the Chisel Club was much more attractive and successful than the Golden Vanderbilt could ever be. The fact that Grant, a literal employee of the Golden Vanderbilt, frequented the Chisel Club didn't surprise Julian in the slightest; if he had the time, he'd also much rather be in the spacious, elegant chamber of the Chisel Club rather than the small, dim, liquor-smelling room of the Golden Vanderbilt. The other one he'd never heard of, surprisingly. Doyle loved to rant about how the Golden Vanderbilt would one day run all the other establishments out of business, and given that this one was Irish-owned and Doyle was Irish, he would have thought he'd take special interest in it.

"It seems that Grant was deep in debt to the gangs that head both speakeasies. I tried going, but I made the unfortunate mistake of showing my badge. I doubt they'll let me anywhere near the place now. But you all could probably go in."

Julian narrowed his eyes. "So what exactly are you proposing?"

Donaldson looked at him. "Simple. I do some research into this 722 number, and you all go to the Chisel Club and Baile Mhic Andáin and see what you can find out about Grant. If any one of us finds something, we can meet back up." Donaldson seemed to notice the less than favorable reactions of the people in front of him, and continued talking. "Think about it. We could get more information this way. You all aren't familiar to the people over at either place, and it sounds like you all could do with a fresh pair of eyes and another head thinking over that number you found."

"I've never heard of either of those places," Caroline admitted. "Are they... like the Vanderbilt?"

Julian gave a short chuckle. "Well, they're all speakeasies. I can't speak to the Baile Mhic Andáin, but the Chisel Club is..." He trailed off. "Well. Let's just say that if the Vanderbilt is your run-of-the-mill pub, then the Chisel Club is the Ritz."

"I'm not sure I have the right clothes for that..." As she trailed off, Caroline reeemembered the pink dress she'd worn that first night. Maybe she'd have to dig it out again.

Sophie had heard about the Chisel Club several times. She had never been there before, but she knew that it was not far from her flat and that there were often problems with drunken visitors getting sick at the front door. She didn´t really want to hang out in a place so near to her flat. But at the same time, she was a little unsettled about the Irish speakeasy, too. Firstly, she couldn´t pronounce the name without breaking her tongue and secondly, it also seemend like it wasn´t exactly a hot lead. Sophie was a little absorbed, as it didn´t seem like anyone wanted to go to the Baile Mhic Andáin.

Aloysius was almost tempted to ask if he could get a free pass and drink a beer without being arrested, but decided against it. He'd said too much already.

"I'm fine with that, as long as I don't get beat up," Aloysius wound up saying. He had heard about the Chisel Club before through another patron of the Golden Vanderbilt. At least from the drunken man's perspective, the other speakeasy was much more organized and refined (for the "higher classed," he had put it) than the Golden Vanderbilt. Aloysius didn't believe him. He didn't have time to believe him. The man was thrown out minutes later for harrassing the people to the other side of him.

On the other hand, the Baile Mhic Andáin was a completely new speakeasy to him. He had been to Ireland twice and both times he was completely confused by the language, and this was no different. He could only imagine men who looking like leprachauns walking around a room painted in green, white, and orange.

"What is so special about the Bail Hic Undone?" Sophie asked.

Donaldson turned to Sophie and answered quite quickly.

"I have information about an employee there called Clive Corrnafola. He has never attracted attention so far, but still seems to work with some other speakeasies as well. A kind of spy, you could say. I´m sure he has some clue about Grant´s murderer and that mysterious 722. He seems like that kind of guy to know stuff like that."

Julian leaned back in his chair, glancing at Caroline, Aloysius, and Sophie.

"Well," he said, pasting a smile on his face. "It seems as if we're taking a little trip to the Chisel Club."

"Actually, I think I´ll go and see that Irish speakeasy. That might do something too, right?"

Sophie wasn´t exactly convincing and she would have liked someone else to volunteer, but she was alone. Embarrassed, she looked down at her knees before repeating herself.

"So we´ll split up here; you three go to Chisel and I´ll go to this weird name speakeasy. Shall we meet again in the coming days, and present our findings?"

Julian looked at Sophie. He felt bad that she was going alone, but felt that his familiarity with the Chisel Club might come in handy. He gave her what he hoped was a confidence-instilling smile. "Best of luck. We can all meet in front of the Golden—" he cut himself off, unsure if Donaldson actually knew about the existence of the Golden Vanderbilt. "In front of Johnson and Co."

Sophie was not sure how much she saw herself as a failed being. After the whole group was interrogated and Donaldson suddenly somehow saw a possibility of an answer, Sophie was now ready to go into a strange speakeasy belonging to an Irish gang.

She was not at all sure what would happen next and not at all prepared to go into a new rabbit hole. It was madness to think of all that could happen and it is a brief moment when Sophie believed that this curiosity only put her further in danger. It was a strange evening when Sophie left the flat, setting her mind on never returning. She didn't know how to act or what to say. There were no clues, except that Donaldson had told her something, to find a connection. And now she was supposed to talk to a certain Clive Corrnafola, one of the bartenders at the speakeasy Baile Mhic Andáin on 7th avenue.

She had been given all the information she needed; how to get in and what to do to get a conversation going at the bar as well. She was prepared for it, and yet it was not easy to get back to that point once everything was going to happen for real.

It was a nondescript furniture shop that stood out with Irish names all over the street. It seemed noisy and many people were gathering in the surrounding corners and side alleys when Sophie entered the street. It was very different from the Golden Vanderbilt, almost as if it had its own government with its own laws, which led to Sophie almost getting involved in a fight during her walk into the shop, which was fortunately broken up by some (as Sophie thought) of the speakeasy's employees.

It smelled of different kinds of wood when Sophie entered the shop. She wasn't sure if she was in the right place, it seemed crowded with furniture constricting her and it didn't seem as open and inviting as the Golden Vanderbilt.

At the very back, almost inconspicuously, there was a red door that said "Private" and there was someone standing there in a suit and quite inappropriate for a furniture shop. It was strange, at least to Sophie, when in the loneliness of her search she suddenly noticed how some guests just walked right up to it and were let in. Sophie tried to hurry up and pretend to be part of the group before anyone would take notice of her, and was now standing by the gentleman with the moustache and bowler.

"Good evening, Miss. What can I do for you?"

"I've come about the order for the teak chest of drawers," Sophie replied, trying not to stammer.

"You are most welcome. Please go straight ahead and then right through the curtain, "the gentleman said and opened the door.

It wasn't dark and it didn't seem like a warehouse, but more like a hallway as long as a foot with no end as Sophie entered the hallway and continued down the path as instructed. As she passed the pine green curtain, it occurred to her to turn it off. It was strange how soundproof the fabric was, a fanfare of quiet music and laughter of people, opened the evening in this secret pub.

It was strange inside. Sophie was too dazzled by the Golden Vanderbilt that she didn't realise this was a very different life; a world ruled by a gang that ruled a part of Chicago and silently swam between the working citizens and wealthy magnates.

Everything was made of wood. It looked noble, mahogany or ebony it had to be, which made the whole room remind you more of a cabin in the mountains than a speakeasy. She stood on a small podium, in front of her, three or four steps down, was the heart of the speakeasy. In the middle rose a round grandstand where music was played. The piano, which took up most of the space and seemed like a living being in its own right, was played by a young man who, almost like a puppet, brought one note after another to life. Around the grandstand, there were at least twenty tables, almost all full of five or six visitors who were having a good time with teacups and alcohol. Further back there was a small dance floor, not very crowded, and right next to it another door, apparently even more private than the one Sophie had come from. Two men stood in front of it and didn't seem like visitors. They were watching everything and everyone.

Several chandeliers hung from the ceiling, rich and noble with glass or crystals, Sophie didn't know. Paintings on the walls depicted emerging artists from the Great Lakes region, as well as many photos of Irish immigrants or landscapes of the Emerald Isle. The most striking thing in the entire room, however, was the bar, and once Sophie set her eyes on it for the first time, she couldn't look away.

The bar took up almost half of the four walls of the room and was kept up by four or five bartenders who, alongside the many waiters, pushed through the visitors. The many glasses and cups hanging from the ceiling, regularly taken down and cleaned (which sometimes caused some patrons at the counters to get a few drips), were only trumped by the sheer number of bottles lined up on four tiers in front of the mirror. It was like a rainbow of magic, how all the different colours mixed together. There had to be a regular manual description, and putting them back where they belonged every day. The colours gave Sophie the satisfying feeling of seeing something perfect.

She continued to stare at the bar, not noticing as more patrons appeared behind her and the seats became more crowded. Terrified of getting to a table over it, she sprinted in a great diversion around the bleachers in the middle to find herself a seat at the very back, almost next to the door with the guards. She wasn't sure how to find Clive now, it seemed the bartenders were all in charge of a particular area and Sophie fervently hoped she had now chosen the right seat.

For she had no further plan in mind and was sure that in the next hour or so she would either be dead or thrown out - or both. She was not sure.

"Good evening, lady. What can I get for you? We have the special of the day today, a Wild Pool Wine."

A man, probably about forty years old, stood in front of her. Like the other bartenders, he wore the same suit in a dark blue and white pattern with a shamrock for cuff links. He had raven black hair and dark beady eyes, almost hidden, behind the lens of his glasses. His nose was like a potato, big and angular, disproportionate but it didn't seem out of place. Rather, it was like a single beacon in this otherwise flat face. His mouth, a maw of teeth, led into the depths, hidden behind a smiling grin. His whiskers looked like lonely ships off a coast.

"Hello, " Sophie said, looking for a name tag, "yes, with pleasure, once the day's recommendation."

“Of course."

Just as the bartender had appeared he had disappeared again and with a sound of clinking glass, he returned and set the drink down right in front of Sophie along with a small bowl of olives.

"The Wild Pool tastes best with fresh olives."

"Thank you very much...?"

"Oswald is my name."

"Thank you very much, Oswald."

"I hope you like it. The wine comes fresh from Ireland every week and is the best the country has to offer," Oswald explained.

"I've never been to Ireland. I come from England and have French ancestors."

Oswald smiled.

"You can't fool the French much when it comes to wine, they are top masters there, of course, but you mustn't compare Wild Pool with any other wine under any circumstances. It has a much more intense flavour, created by the mineral-rich earth."

Sophie had no idea whether that was good or bad. Her knowledge of wine was limited and actually, quite actually, she was not a big fan of wine at all, she always found it too bitter or at least too tart in a certain taste. Her first sip gave her a very intense taste of freedom, which overflowed with the finish to a bright, mellow tone that felt like grass blowing in the wind. Sophie was surprised.

"Delicious."

"I'm glad to hear that. If I may, I have other guests to serve."

He attempted a small bow and turned to other customers while Sophie stayed behind and sipped her wine. Now she sat there, not knowing what exactly she still had to do. At least she enjoyed the wine, so she watched the crowd from the mirror behind the bar, trying to spot someone she might know.

It helped to distract her a little from not being able to carry out the plan that didn't exist. While she got stuck on the piano player at some point, she lingered with her empty glass by her side, counting in her head what she would say to Donaldson if they could ever meet again.

But her friends were probably in such a position too, stuck somewhere in an unknown place, not knowing what would happen next. She was not alone, even if she was alone. Behind her were the others who were struggling as well and had a plan that didn't exist. Sophie had to work her way up to this point a little until she was approached by Oswald and ordered another glass of wine.

The music had changed and the mood of the guests shifted more and more into the euphoric. While there was almost an altercation at one table, some people from the speakeasy had to intervene and calm the crowd down after a few minutes. Sophie continued to be trapped in her mirror world, seeing everything only through this mirror instead of her eyes. During these moments, it occurred to her to finally come up with a plan to get away as quickly as possible.

When Oswald came to her one more time after she had emptied the glass, she tried to follow through with her plan.

"It seems you enjoyed the wine."

Sophie nodded.

"Yes, it had such a taste that I have never had before. Whereas I must honestly confess that I rarely drink wine."

Oswald smiled.

"It's hard in this country, of course."

"That's true. Have you been working here for long, if I may ask?" wanted to know Sophie.

"For about nine years. I was born, body and soul, for the art of drinking."

Oswald bowed. There was something elegant and interesting about him, almost something like how you imagined an uncle or someone in the family you rarely got to see, but brought a great surprise every time.

"You're from Ireland?" asked Sophie.

"Not at all. I'm from Scotland. My connection to Ireland is with my great-grandmother". You seem to me to be an interesting mix as well". Do you speak French?"

"Fluently. It was common in the house when I lived in England. Since I moved to Ohio, English has become my lingua franca, " Sophie explained.

"You almost don't hear them have an accent. Famos."

"Thank you, Oswald."

"I think her name must have slipped my mind."

"Sophie. Sophie will do quite nicely."

"What a lovely name. Well then, once again, a warm welcome to the Baile Mhic Andáin."

"You pronounce that well. I have my problems with Irish."

"Try to speak everything from the heart, otherwise it won't work. But you won't be crowned with success at first. You'll have to try harder than that."

"I see. Learning is important."

"Exactly."

Sophie thought she had Oswald on the hook and tried her luck with a new question.

"Hi Oswald, is Clive working today?"

"Clive? He's always a bit late. Do you want me to give him a message?" Asked Oswald.

"If you like, please tell him a friend is visiting. I'd like to have a word with him."

"All right. I'll let him know as soon as he gets here."

Sophie's plan seemed to have succeeded, even if she didn't hold out any hope that Clive would actually come. She remained in her seat and watched the young evening go to midnight. People came and went. It grew louder and quieter and she was hidden in this hustle and bustle of the tides, like an inconspicuous insect, disappearing in the crowd of company.

It was around one in the night when the lights dimmed and Sophie, after a few more glasses of wine, was approached by a gentleman who, contrary to Oswald (who had said goodbye an hour ago), was not behind the bar but behind Sophie.

"My lady, may we have a word with you?"

The gentleman looked like Sophie would imagine a hoodlum to look like; a bowler, suit and hiding something evil behind the moustache. The eyes were shaped like a bird's, mirroring the other person and letting none into the soul.

Sophie was still a little drunk from the six or seven glasses of wine and didn't immediately know what was going on.

"You... you're Clive? Clive Corrnafola?"

"Hm."

He made no further reply, but grabbed Sophie and pulled her towards the mysterious door she sometimes stared at, where the two guards stood. Sophie seemed like a doll, she could little comprehend what was going on, and just as she did not understand what was happening, neither did the patrons realise that someone had just disappeared from the bar.

She was led by the gentleman and another man standing in the back room to a starkly lit room where there were more tables. It looked less inviting and more like a storage room. Newspaper articles lay scattered on the floor and tables and a Doberman slept next to a new leather sofa where three people sat.

For Sophie, the moment of sobriety came now. She didn't notice how she now finally realised that a dream would never go on like this, that she would have to wake up. But now she sat here in this place with nothing to do but obey the orders and actions of the man who had brought her here.

He led her to a table and placed her there against her will, just opposite the sofa.

"Welcome, " the middle man spoke, lifting his hat. Only now, as the shadow disappeared, did Sophie recognise the man. He had a shaggy, liquorice-black beard and large, dark eyes that looked against his tanned skin as if they had been glued on and artificially inserted. His hair was short and neat, almost licked flat under his hat. He wore a few rings on his fingers and a dark suit. A stain, which he probably could not remove, was right next to one of the cufflinks.

His companions looked younger and less bearded, and yet all three exuded a certain danger that Sophie could not describe. She only noticed how dry her mouth became, and all her thoughts turned not to the future, but to a short-term escape from the black box that was in this room.

"Hello, "Sophie coughed quietly, trying with some spit to bring her voice from a croak to a soft tone.

"Bring the lady something to drink. Water preferably," the middle man blaffed and then turned back to Sophie, "Welcome again to the Baile Mhic Andáin. I am the owner, Michael Brugha. These are my brothers, William and Thomas. And now I would like you to introduce yourselves, my lady."

The two brothers just nodded briefly and watched Sophie, who was still a little confused.

"Sophie Cox... Sophie Cox is my name."

"A beautiful name, my lady. To what do I owe the honour of having you in my establishment today?" Michael wanted to know.

"I...I just wanted something to drink."

Sophie was now completely in her senses and knew that she now had no way out. But she also knew that she could only betray the truth to a point, and then still get out alive. Different scenarios played out in her head, causing her to remain on a wave of emotions between hope and misery. It was only when one of the guards came with a glass of water that Sophie was able to get out of her head and come back to herself. After a sip of water, she felt fresher again and noticed how every drop invigorated her body.

"You asked for Clive. Clive Corrnafola. I'd be interested to know why."

Sophie was suddenly furious, glaring at Michael with dark eyes, even if she didn't want to do it directly. She was angry with Oswald because he was the one responsible for Sophie having to be here now.

"He's a friend. I wanted to talk to him, "Sophie replied.

One of the brothers, Sophie didn't know if it was William or Thomas, just shook his head and lit a cigarette. He coughed a few times, irritating Michael. He remained in a stupor for a moment before he fully recovered. It seemed as if he was in his head as much as Sophie, trying to find a solution to a possible problem.

"You're his girlfriend?"

"No."

"How do you know him then?"

Sophie had just realised she had made a mistake. And now she sat there trying to come up with a new plan. This one was started with a glass of water.

"You're silent?" Spoke Michael.

"Me, he's a friend of mine and I haven't seen him for a very long time. I found out he was working here and thought I might come and see him."

"I would like the name of the person who told them about Clive. How do you know the person? You know business is very good at the moment and we don't want every person to know what exactly is our principle of success. Life as a trader is very hard, the struggle is impenetrable and I don't want all that to change from one moment to the next," Michael explained.

"Yes, well I found out from Randall, he's been a school friend of mine, but I don't know what his surname was."

"Irish?"

"I don't know," Sophie returned.

"Miss Cox, you are in a position where it is very difficult to get out and I would like you to tell me the truth. If nothing changes, it may be painful for both parties, you and me. Therefore, I would like to start again, and offer you a cigarette first."

Michael took the pack from his brother and went to Sophie. Sophie tried to refuse, but there was no way she could defend herself in any way, so she was given a cigarette and it was lit by Michael with a match. As Michael sat back on the sofa, the light suddenly flickered for a brief moment. It seemed blurred after Sophie took the first puff, coughing a few times. She noticed a friendly mood brewing in her mind, and she managed to square her shoulders. She noticed how she was getting into a better mood with each new puff, even though she knew that the smell and taste of nicotine would be with her for a few days now. Provided she was still alive tomorrow.

"Now Miss Cox, why don't you tell us about yourself?"

Now Sophie noticed that Michael always spoke in this calm and monotone voice, almost like a radio presenter who just wanted to read his lines. Sophie looked for an ashtray, which she got from one of the guards, and managed to get rid of the stub.

"My name is Sophie, "she began to tell, trying to think of a suitable story, "I met a friend a few weeks ago who comes here regularly, Randall. Randall is a school friend of mine and we met once at the museum. You have to know, I'm a painter, and therefore very rarely outside my studio because I'm always painting. So I met Randall and he immediately remembered me. We talked a lot and eventually got to Clive. Clive was a good friend of ours from school and I really wanted to meet him again. Randall, however, didn't want that at first, I suppose it has to do with his job, but I was so vehement about wanting to see Clive again that I didn't think of any consequences at all. I... well I'm sitting here because I thought I could meet him here then."

Michael had listened to Sophie and made no sound when she had spoken. Attentively he had listened to her and it seemed as if his expression changed. It was no longer so directly stoic or angry, but it became milder, but still threatening.

"I don't see any lie in you. But I have to tell you to forget about Clive. Clive owes our shop over $1,000 and hasn't shown up since yesterday. So if you should find him, give me information about it immediately and I will arrange a reward for it."

Michael thought for a moment and then continued.

"An employee who resists his employer is very dangerous. You know life in Chicago is tough, capitalism is like evolution in nature. It's eaten or be eaten. If Clive, who is like an organ for us in business, fails, we will all suffer. There'll be problems and we'll die out. There are families attached to this, Miss Cox, so remember not to do anything that's dangerous."

"OK...?"

Sophie was glad that Michael didn't realise that Sophie was now sitting there with a thick question mark over her head, wondering if she could just turn invisible to get out of here.

"Miss Cox, I am very sorry that I had to call you in today on this special day. I had a feeling something was wrong, precisely because we are also looking for Clive. You can go now, have another drink, it's on the house and feel free to grace the establishment again."

Michael laughed and his brothers followed suit. He then came back to Sophie and shook her hand. She did not respond, she was stunned and seemed like a puppet. The last thing she noticed in the room was Michael handing her a business card and taking her back to the bar.

It all felt so surreal. It was quieter and darker in the big room and most of the musicians had already gone home. Sophie listened to the pianist play something by a European composer while a bartender she didn't know gave her a glass of red wine with an accent, which one of the security guards said was the best in the place.

Sophie was unsure how much longer she should stay here so as not to trample on Michael's hospitality. It continued to seem like a bad show. She noticed how she trembled and her whole body shook. She felt everything about her body feel like glass, as if it would shatter at any moment and leave Sophie in a thousand pieces.

She was safe, she knew that, but her body continued to be on a kind of alert that she couldn't quite put her finger on what would happen next. Sophie remained in the speakeasy until just after half past two in the night before she said goodbye to the bartender and, with a faxed smile, bid the security guards goodbye before leaving the furniture shop through a back exit in a side alley.

The whole way home, which Sophie took on foot, felt more pleasant and safer than being in there. She had several premonitions that she would be followed, but there was no one to encounter when she turned around at every street corner. On the way, she was briefly approached by a police officer in a patrol car who offered to take her home, but Sophie declined gratefully, claiming she just had to get down the street, which was a lie.

By the time Sophie had closed the flat door behind her and made her way up the stairs to her studio, everything felt like a terrible nightmare. Everything was in a penumbra. The moon shone in through the large window and it seemed as if she continued to be trapped in her own body.

Sophie was broken as she lay in her bed crying, not even taking off her shoes, where she fell asleep in tears, no longer knowing why she had started crying in the first place. Only with each new hour that passed did she realise how dangerous it was, what she had done, and with each new hour that started, she moved like a comet further away from that point. The moment had come when she could finally disappear. Away from everything, away from Chicago and Illinois.

***

The next morning Sophie woke up and didn't know she was alive. Her dreams were too plagued by an impossible house where she found more doors to open in each new room and only fell further and deeper down this kind of rabbit hole. Sophie was no longer sure what all had been dreamed and what all she had really experienced. She found a crumpled business card of Michael's again when she undressed in the bathroom to wash up and left it there.

A few glasses from the tap helped her to sober up mentally. So she had no clue as to what exactly had happened and where Clive could be. She could only guess if his escape and the theft of a thousand dollars somehow involved Grant.

Sophie hadn't dared open any windows yet, wincing in fear of any noise, and when there was a knock at her door around noon, she was so startled that the white canvas in front of her took on a long, juicy carrot-orange line that evenly divided the hitherto white painting in two.

She had no idea whether to open it or not. The fear was great and at first, she remained as quiet as a mouse and pretended that no one was home. But the knocking did not stop, in fact, it became even more energetic, almost as if the door was being unhinged a little with each new knock. Fearing that her fantasy might come true, Sophie made her way to the door and spoke quietly.

"Who is it? I'm working."

"Oswald from the furniture shop yesterday."

Sophie opened the door and only afterwards realised she shouldn't have. But he was fortunately alone and unarmed. As dashing and elegant as he had seemed the night before, he had changed, unimpressive and transparent. He looked as if he could hide in the crowd and go underground.

"May I come in for a moment, lady?"

"Yes, come in, "Sophie said sheepishly, closing the door behind her.

Before Sophie could offer him a drink or a seat, Oswald turned to her and bowed so much that he could almost touch his feet with his nose.

"I am so terribly sorry for what happened yesterday. I graciously ask you to forgive me for what I did, for making them talk to our boss. -"

"Nothing happened," Sophie returned calmly, "Oswald, everything is all right."

"I can't just pretend there's nothing wrong or undone with my words. I put you in danger because I put the good of the company on a higher level than the human life that helps us grow."

Oswald was now almost on his knees and seemed to be crying, but however hard he pressed on the tear glands, nothing came out of his eyes, and yet he made a very sad impression.

"Calm down first."

"Calm down?"

"Would you like something to drink, Oswald?"

"A glass of water, please."

Sophie felt she had a home advantage, even though her comfort zone included the entire flat and a foreign body had taken up residence, she was superior to Oswald and made her way to the kitchen, asking the man to come with her where he could find space at the table. Sophie also took a glass of water and sat down opposite him.

While she had still been standing at the tap, the worry of having nothing had subsided and Sophie was glad that she might now be able to tell Donaldson something, though. She had not yet given up hope, however small at the moment, and was convinced that Oswald might eventually bring her to Clive.

"Well, you don't have to apologise for anything anymore."

Sophie had spoken the first word while Oswald was still drinking. She had not fixed her gaze on him, but on the window and the view outside of a tree that was there and had been a thorn in her side for ages. She was too curious to know who lived opposite her.

"Thank you so much. You are so generous."

"But I will be interested in one thing; how do you know where I live?"

Oswald blushed and bowed again.

"I followed you during the night. I'm sorry, I just wanted to talk to you and apologise again for my behaviour. I betrayed you."

Sophie tried to take it all in her stride and lift Oswald's spirits a little.

"Everything went well, now we're sitting here with a glass of water and we're both alive. It's funny, of course, when a new guest comes to visit and asks for a particular bartender."

"Indeed. Not many people want anything to do with Clive."

"Oh, why is that?"

"He's a bit odd. Actually, a very reserved and shy man who is very good at following orders but rarely thinks. But apparently, there are still sometimes minutes when Clive is his own man and suddenly has a mad idea in mind."

"The theft of a thousand dollars."

"Yes, an awfully large sum of money. I can't understand how he could just disappear with it."

Sophie tried to put her head a little inside Donaldson's and play police herself.

"Might it have something to do with his family?"

Oswald shook his head and asked for another glass of water.

"No. He lives alone somewhere on 49th, "Oswald replied as Sophie handed him new tap water.

"Oh, so maybe a dream he wants to realise? Some kind of seed money."

"Clive will never get out of Chicago. Michael and his men will be looking for him and tracking him down and it won't end well. Clive is stupid. Those brief minutes where he turns on his brain end in disaster. He did something very bad once, " Oswald explained, "I can't even pronounce it."

He took a big gulp and Sophie did the same. She felt a kind of superiority in herself as now sat there offering him another glass.

"So Clive is still hiding at home?"

Sophie was sure there was no one in the world who could get drunk on water, but somehow Oswald suddenly seemed as if he couldn't get down the stairs on his own. Almost amused at this development, Sophie repeated her question and Oswald began to make a mad dash of emotion where he wanted to laugh and cry.

"No. He's probably with a woman somewhere. Or at least he's trying to be."

"A woman?"

"Clive is so stupid. He gets his head turned so easily by a woman..."

Oswald looked up from his empty glass.

"I don't mean to imply that you are the same."

"I wasn't thinking of myself just now, "Sophie retorted, "So a woman?"

Sophie knew she was on a hot streak and was now lucky to have survived last night.

"I haven't met you, and I don't know the lady's name, but they used to meet in Jefferson Park, usually in the evenings before he started work."

Sophie smiled. She was smiling on the inside but also on the outside, thinking she had now found something. She wasn't sure yet that the woman was someone she knew, but at least there was a clue she could follow up.

"Surely he's not going to be stupid enough to go there again after he's stolen the money, is he?"

"The stupidity of Clive knows no bounds.... Oh dear..."

The initial joy in Oswald had subsided and sadness now dominated.

"I just hope he doesn't get up to any more nonsense. He's still so young and has his life ahead of him..."

"Couldn't he somehow go to the police and seek protection?"

Oswald chortled.

"Certainly not."

"Then do you know what he looked like last time and what kind of clothes he was wearing? Maybe he would just have to change his clothes or maybe shave his beard?"

Oswald chuckled again.

"Clive doesn't have a beard. He has such pale skin that the first time I saw him I assumed he was from Greenland. He has blond, almost silver hair and bright blue eyes. He stands out everywhere like a colourful dog, especially at our work. The most he could do is take off his earring and wear a wig or something like that to disguise himself a bit, but Clive, no, Clive is too conspicuous..."

"Why are you so worried about Clive, Oswald? Are you related to him?"

Oswald shook his head and took a deep breath.

"I feel responsible for what I have done to you and I feel responsible for Clive too. He had nothing and I met him when he was sitting on the street and gave him the opportunity of this job. Our boss was happy with it, especially because Clive has Irish ancestry."

He paused for a moment.

"It's like I'm some kind of father or uncle to him, I feel like I have to look out for Him, especially because I showed him everything, how it works in the bar."

Sophie thought for a moment. She remembered what Donaldson said and now tried to go in a different direction.

"As you know, I know Clive through a friend and the friend said Clive worked in different speakeasys, or in other words, different gangs."

"That's not true!" said Oswald aloud, shedding a tear, "Clive had worked in various gangs before that. He'd never been one for honest work after losing his family in the war. He doesn't feel like going the long way to get rich, but wants to get there as soon as possible."

"So that's some kind of motive for his stealing the thousand dollars?"

"Clive is stupid. His head has been twisted by the beliefs of American capitalism. But he understands absolutely nothing about the world and how it works."

"And you? You work in a speakeasy too."

Oswald sobbed and looked at her.

"We used to be a legitimate business. I ran a speakeasy and served my country. That we were taken away from what brought joy to the people was the biggest mistake in history. If it starts with a drink, where will it end? Where will it stop, you tell me!"

Sophie swallowed briefly and smiled.

"I don't think we should be talking about the government, and its laws, when we're actually here for Clive."

Sophie didn't know what to do, in fact she now had all the information she needed to continue her case. She would have preferred to throw Oswald out straight away, but he drank three more glasses of water before saying goodbye and giving at least ten more excuses.

Sophie, alone in the flat, was overjoyed. She had found a clue and was sure she could now give something back to Donaldson. Somehow it all had to be connected to the 722, but Sophie was not yet convinced that she had all the pieces of the puzzle that would make it easier to solve.

She was also not sure if it would come to a solution at all. She didn't know how Aloysius and the others were doing and whether they had already found a solution. Maybe she was completely useless or only made things worse. At least she could now be sure that she could not give up. Oswald was somehow behind her and Michael too seemed more like he was prodding her to find Clive.

6082 words (8150 words in total)

Sophie had been in Jefferson Park too long that she couldn't remember the last time she had been able to sit somewhere for so long without doing anything. Occasionally she would take out a piece of paper and start a sketch, but most of the time she would linger on one of the countless park benches, trying to find someone somewhere who might resemble Clive. She continued to have a certain fear inside her when she thought of seeing one of Michael's men again, at the same time she was in good spirits about being too far from the speakeasy.

When Sophie wasn't drawing, she tried to walk through the park and make a map in her head. With the information she had, she could look for a blonde guy, hoping to find something out. But it wasn't as easy as one might imagine. On the map Sophie had examined, Jefferson Park was much smaller than it was now in real life, and in part Sophie even thought she was at a completely different point than Clive probably was.

She was there far too early, it was only a little after three in the afternoon when she had turned up there on the first day, looking for a suitable spot where she could watch a couple undisturbed. She put herself a little too much in the role of the woman and imagined too much of a life where she placed herself in the middle spot and thus chose a park bench that she would find suitable for a meeting.

On the first day, Sophie had no luck. There was not a single person for miles around with blonde hair who resembled Clive in any way, partly because most of them walked around with bowlers or had darker hair or none at all. Sophie disappeared as night fell and was glad to be back in her flat before she would run into one of Michael's gang. Surely they would also be alert and lurking in Jefferson Park for Clive.

At home, Sophie mused that Oswald must have passed this information on to Michael as well. These would be lurking outside Clive's house as well as a park. But Sophie couldn't give up yet, she had too much to fight through a little imprisonment to give up now.

And even in her important mission, her private life caught up with her. She received a visitor that day. Twice. The first time was Mister Bartlett, again looking for something new to admire or give his wife. He and Sophie spent almost two hours in the studio, where Sophie was even willing to show a little of how she mixed the colours to make a lasting impression. During the minutes of togetherness, Clive did always come to mind and wondered if it was permissible to ask Mister Bartlett if he knew him, but she very quickly put that out of her mind.

The second visit was a very unexpected one and it also ended shortly after Sophie had already opened the door; Liam. Sophie said nothing but listened, nodded and then closed the door.

On the second day, success was equally absent. Sophie seemed like a stray or a homeless person, wandering and clueless about the situation. Too reluctant to approach anyone, she wandered around trying to reach every park bench she had so far placed on her mental map. She lurked longer at some and shorter at others. Sometimes she took a shortcut across the meadow to avoid an intersection. By the end of the second day she had counted seven hundred and forty-three people coming towards her. Of these, twelve were blond and none looked like Clive, either with earrings or bright blue eyes.

It was not until about six o'clock in the evening on the third day that a figure that might resemble Clive appeared. It was wrapped in a coat that was completely inappropriate for summer. But what stood out was his red earring on his right ear and what Oswald had described as his almost silver hair, which he wore short. Full of determination, he followed a path that Sophie traced from a good distance away and found the man a little later at a park bench where someone was already sitting. Sophie stayed back at a distance, somewhere behind a weeping willow, trying to catch something. She could not yet be sure that it was really Clive. Although there weren't many people walking around with an earring as red as this one.

Sophie didn't hear anything they were both discussing, but they were sitting close together, almost too close, for her liking, as she started to sketch out a bit of an appearance in the park as a normal visitor. She could only watch them both from behind and didn't notice how the woman sometimes turned to him and whispered in his ear or kissed him? It was only after a small packet of money (as Sophie thought of it) was visible that she became alert and knew she had found her person. Now she just had to wait for the best opportunity and hope that they wouldn't go somewhere in pairs.

Sophie continued to linger under the weeping willow even as dusk began to fall and the few lanterns in the park were lit. It was only when there were fewer and fewer visitors in the park that squatting under the tree seemed suspect, and Sophie tried to think of somewhere else to go, and that's when it happened; suddenly the woman yelled something naughty and left Clive, who remained alone on the park bench. Sophie couldn't help but look conspicuous and tried to pretend she was an inconspicuous passer-by passing by. She couldn't help taking a quick glance at him. He was picking up the banknotes, now scattered on the ground and the park bench, and was about to leave when Sophie could see, still in the dim light, that one note was left lying there.

She quickly grabbed the $50 note and went after Clive. This was her chance to talk to him.

"Hey, wait, mister!"

Sophie shouted across the park, she could still make out Clive sparsely in the dusk, his outline blending more and more with the trees. He gave no response and seemed to be picking up speed, so Sophie began to run as well.

She followed Clive as best she could. Standing outside the park, she saw him disappear into a side street and Sophie followed him. The streets were almost empty, she could run across them undisturbed without stopping anywhere so as not to close the distance between Clive and her.

This chase, which probably involved everyone Sophie met on the way, was nothing more than a childish game of cat and mouse where the aim was to chase Clive until he got to his hideout. Sophie had at least guessed this when, after almost ten minutes and barely any air and a kink in her right foot, she arrived at a shabby hotel where she had seen Clive disappear.

Hesitantly, she waited outside for a bit to get some air back in her lungs before entering the house and encountering no one in the run-down foyer except a spider that had spun a web next to the keys. There wasn't even a doorbell to find anyone, so Sophie lingered downstairs until someone came out of a door she hadn't noticed earlier.

The man looked tired and annoyed, broke he seemed and stank of sweat.

"Good evening lady. What can I do for you?"

His voice was groaned and bored, almost shameful for the entire hotel industry.

"I'm looking for a friend. Clive Corrnafola is his name. He said he was staying here at the moment."

The man eyed Sophie up and down. She couldn't think what he was thinking at the moment and why someone was still receiving lady visitors at such a late hour, but he pulled out a book and pretended the entire hotel was completely full.

"Anderson, Mole, Franklin, Corrnafola... yes, here we go. Room 303, shall I announce you?"

An embarrassed smile came across his lips.

"No, thank you."

With determination, Sophie made her way to the third floor. With each new floor, the hotel deteriorated more and more. If the ground floor was still only home to the single spider, it had left its family on the higher floors. There were black dots all over the place, which, it turned out, were spiders or some poor trapped insect.

Room 303 was between 302 and 304 at the end of a corridor with at least half a dozen different kinds of vermin. Filled with disgust, Sophie knocked on the door with her elbow.

"Clive Corrnafola? I have something that belongs to them."

There was no reply. Another time Sophie knocked and repeated her words. When again there was no answer, she folded the note and pressed it through the bottom of the door. At least enough so that she could pull it back as soon as she felt someone tugging at it.

As it came, the note was snatched from her and a little later the door was opened. It happened so quickly; Sophie didn't even have time to say anything. There stood Clive Corrnafola in front of her. He didn't look scared, more terrified as if his ingenious plan had been seen through.

"Who are you?"

His voice did not match his body at all. That lanky, almost pitiful body was hidden under the frayed clothes. As best he could, he tried to give off a more pleasant smell with soap, but it seemed out of place.

"Sophie Cox," she introduced herself, "I saw you in the park earlier and I found this note. I assume you forgot to take this one with you."

"Thank you, Miss Cox, " Clive replied quietly, "But how do you know my name? Were you sent by anyone?"

Sophie shook her head. He didn't seem to believe her.

"No, I'm here on my own."

Sophie thought for a moment.

"I know you're in trouble, but I have nothing to do with it. We more or less have a common denominator and I just want you to answer one question for me. What's the deal with 722?"

"722?"

"Right."

Clive, who continued to linger by the door, seemed to be thinking. Sophie watched the little animals around the doorframe wandering about, probably complaining that they were still being woken up at such a late hour.

"No. That doesn't mean anything to me."

"Do you know anyone who might be connected to it?"

"No."

"Do you know the Golden Vanderbilt?"

Clive seemed to be saying something else than he thought.

"No. What is it?"

"An alcoholic beverage bar. You work in such an establishment yourself, don't you?"

Clive blushed and it seemed as if the friendliness had now come to an end.

"Miss Cox, I'm busy. Goodbye."

"Wait, Clive! You can't just close the door like that!"

Sophie knocked harder against the wooden door a few times, hoping for an answer that she nevertheless did not expect. But there was a result.

"Miss Cox, if you don't leave in the next five minutes, I will call the police. Please respect my privacy."

"I can't do that if I know you're in danger." Sophie said.

"And how do you know that for sure? So you were sent by someone after all. Michael? Or one of his brothers?"

"No, by Oswald."

"Oswald? You mean Mr Leitch?" Clive asked.

"That's right. He came to see me today because, it's too long to explain, but you have to believe me when I tell you that you're in danger."

"Are you a detective?" inquired Clive.

"Have you ever seen a female detective? I'd probably have smashed your door down if I had," Sophie returned, "In short I'm a friend of a friend and Oswald sought me out today to find you because you're in danger."

"So you're warning me?" came from the other side of the door.

"Something like that."

There was silence for a brief moment.

"Mister Corrnafola?"

Clive opened the door a crack and looked Sophie up and down.

"What is the meaning of the questions you asked at the beginning? Was that a ploy to keep me here longer?"

"No. Of course not!"

"You're lying."

He slammed the door again.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" he yelled.

Sophie remained outside the door for a while longer as she stood there, not realising there was no other way out. At least she came to the conclusion that Clive had not lied about 722. It was only afterwards that Sophie went too far into other areas that made him uncomfortable. Sophie probably should have asked other questions, such as who the woman was who was with him. Or should she perhaps seek out Oswald and ask if he knew anything more?

Sophie left the hotel, not noticing, probably out of tiredness, that a man was sitting in the foyer on one of the chewed-up armchairs, waiting, it seemed. Sophie didn't give him a second thought and headed home. She had at least achieved as much as she had intended and was now pleased with herself.

She could only hope that Clive was smart enough to find a way to get out of the hotel unknown or to get out of town quickly on the next train. It reminded her of Liam to the power of ten. He was just as reckless and swashbuckling, but a hell of a lot dumber than Liam. Liam knew where the consequences lay and which foot to step over the line with, but it seemed like Clive was just jumping back and forth, hoping to land on a field that brought him luck.

Sophie thought on her way back about maybe turning around again, and a few times she had managed to turn around briefly and go back a few hundred feet, but then her courage left her. She had no desire for Clive to call the police, no matter how unlikely that seemed, and no desire to be back with the scruffy receptionist either.

As she walked home, she thought about perhaps visiting Clive again tomorrow, when it would be better; it would be daytime and the honest people would be out. At least that's how she pictured it in her head, but at the same time she knew she wouldn't be going back there. Never again in her life.

***

The new morning did not bring the well-deserved rest Sophie had wished for, but the rain the farmers had wished for in the surrounding countryside. All limbs were stiff and Sophie felt as if both arms and legs did not belong to her. Almost paralysed and annoyed, she crouched at the edge of her bed and thought about all she had experienced in the last few days.

She was too tired to realise that it was past noon again and most of the residents of Chicago had already been working for several hours. She felt uncomfortable and looked for a reason to lie back down in bed. But there was no time for that, for there was a knock at the door just as she was about to put her nightgown back on.

"Hello?" Sophie asked, a little annoyed, hoping it was either Clive or Oswald, preferably Oswald.

"Miss Cox, please open the door."

Sophie didn't recognise the voice, even though it seemed familiar. Without much concern, she opened the door and found one of Michael's brothers. Whether it was William or Thomas she didn't know, but at least it was only one and not the complete trio. While she was still thinking about going to sleep, a stone fell in the pit of her stomach in her mind and everything felt heavy and dangerous. The danger that was supposed to have been banished came back and suddenly she remembered what had happened four days ago.

"Good afternoon. I'm here to give you this."

Michael's brother (where Sophie thought it rude not to introduce herself) handed her an envelope.

"You've helped us a lot. Thank you."

"With what?"

Sophie wasn't sure whether to ask or not. But the brother was pleased and smiled.

"We got back the money that Mister Clive Corrnafola stole. It's good because the thousand dollars is really a lot."

Sophie gradually realised that she must not have been the only one watching Clive and she now vaguely remembered that last night at the hotel there had been a man waiting in the foyer. Had he been following Sophie? What had they done with Clive? Sophie was undecided whether she should or even wanted to ask because she couldn't shake the feeling that Clive was probably no longer alive.

"Clive has learned his lesson and that is why we thank you. My brother would like to invite you for another visit, maybe there is also something you like from cupboards or shelves, " the brother continued, pointing to the envelope.

Sophie was embarrassed but opened it. Inside was twenty dollars and a discount voucher for Michael's furniture shop, as well as a handwritten note saying, thank you.

"Thank you very much. But I didn't do anything. I just wanted to meet him again."

"Did you enjoy the meeting?"

"Not really. He's very run down over the years," Sophie said dryly, putting the note and the rest back in the envelope, "Thanks again."

"You're welcome. Goodbye."

With a short kennel, the man said goodbye and left Sophie standing alone by the doorframe. She was a little shocked, and with each passing minute, she was forced to realise that she had made a stupid mistake. Someone had been killed because of her. As she closed the door behind her, she felt as if she had cut a rope between herself and the outside world. Suddenly she was floating around in an airless space with nowhere to hold on to. There was no way to turn back time or do anything. Someone had lost his life because of her. And she had been thanked for it.

Sophie lay back in bed, paced up and down the kitchen and circled the screen, trying to calm herself somehow, but each new step made her feel like she was doing something reprehensible, criminal, and she had no one to blame but herself. Or did she now have to punish and blame Clive for it? He had made the mistake from the beginning. Or was it Michael for opening this speakeasy in the first place? Or even the government for prohibition, or the British king, or who? Sophie fell into a spiral and thought she had found a solution at some point in the night. It was small and yet it brought her a little hope.

Clive didn't have to be dead. It was only when she had that thought in her mind that she was able to stop and pause for a brief moment. It was a very small percentage, not even one per cent, but there was hope that Clive had to be alive. The more she told herself this, the calmer and more relaxed Sophie became. She still paced around her flat because she couldn't come to a standstill, but it still didn't help her to fall asleep.

Clive's face lingered in front of her eyes, she thought of what a miserable life he must have had because she had only met him briefly there in the shabby hotel. Just those few minutes were enough to fool Sophie's perception and shape an entire life for Clive.

It was an internal battle that she only won in the morning hours as she tried to find a fact and a confirmation of Clive's death. Across town, she bought several daily newspapers to find some mention of a body being found or a funeral notice somewhere. There were many of these, but none could reassure her that Clive was there. Rather more, it now made her feel as if Clive was still alive but trapped and tortured somewhere in one of the many rooms behind the furniture shop.

It got to the point that two days later Sophie called the number Donaldson had given them to check up. But a call was declined, Donaldson did not want to speak via phone, but would meet when the arranged appointment came. This disappointed Sophie, she still had to hold out until the point where she could be sure of getting an answer. And until then, she had to be patient and pray that Clive was all right.

The days could not go by without Sophie tearing herself apart about the possible future or non-future of Clive. One evening she made her way back to the speakeasy where she was warmly received, almost like a celebrity, where Michael shook her hand again and thanked her personally, but Sophie was deaf. As long as she had no answer about Clive's whereabouts, she could do nothing but lament. Oswald could not cheer her up, he spoke to her as if the visit had never happened and even when Sophie went back to that shabby hotel another day, she could not calm down. The scruffy receptionist only said that Clive had checked out the same night Sophie was there and had said nothing about his background.

If only Sophie had paid a little more attention and she had watched the woman or at least made a sketch of her, but now she remained in this place, waiting for one of her friends to at least have a solution ready. Only that helped her realise that she was not alone. Lost in her own spiral again, she forgot that she was not alone in the world and that her friends probably had to go through a lot to get there. And all because this Donaldson wanted something from them. Only because they wanted to solve this case.

It was a long process that Sophie needed to come back and try to start a normal life. It was harder than it had been after Grant's death, she was directly involved with it this time and there was no excuse for not thinking of the consequences. Should she have just told Donaldson she didn't want to take the job? What would have happened then? Would she have been arrested?

It was only on a sunny Thursday morning that there was a brief spark of hope when Sophie heard on the radio that a man had been fished out of the lake, unconscious and trapped in a sack. He had been fished out in the late evening hours and is currently in hospital. The police were investigating a gang-related crime and the man was now under 24-hour guard, awaiting recovery and a possible statement.

Sophie had fervently wished to find something similar and now hoped and prayed that this man was Clive. But she could not be sure. At least now she could sleep in peace and deny herself the guilt. Even though she would never know where Clive really was, she put all her hope in this one man who had been fished out of the lake, unconscious but alive.

Sophie tried to distract herself and devote herself to painting a few times. Even a visit from Mister Bartlett did not make her feel calmer, at least not when he left again and took a small painting he liked that Sophie had done some time ago. Mister Bartlett was in Sophie's flat for a long time, he talked about organising a small exhibition of some unknown artists to show the works to a larger audience.

This was a brief shining moment for Sophie, but it was bridged again when she was alone and Mister Bartlett's old, wise voice was no longer heard. It was like a brief moment where she jumped out of the water to catch her breath, only to be pulled back into the depths afterwards.

Sophie didn't know what to do, on the one hand she at least wanted to be in company and have a sense of going somewhere, but she also didn't want to go back to the Golden Vanderbilt or the Irish speakeasy. She was trapped in her own rigidity, acting like a lizard whose body temperature had dropped. Too paralysed to do anything, she lingered for many hours either in the studio or her bed, but she could never come up with anything to distract her. Neither painting a picture or drawing lines senselessly or reading one of her favourite books, nothing helped to distract her. At least nothing, until the moment when she would meet the others again.

***

When she realised again at a rainy midday hour that she was not alone in the world, she thought of Oswald and wanted to see him as soon as possible and find out if he knew anything. But she didn't know where he lived, so Sophie was forced to go back to the speakeasy. So she had to do it and in the evening she got ready to return. It was strange, especially because she didn't know what to expect. Tomorrow she would come back to Donaldson with the others and it would come to an end.

Sophie was in the furniture shop quite early and was sure that some of the customers there had nothing to do with the speakeasy. They seemed too respectable and, above all, too classy to lower themselves to the level of a street mutt drinking alcohol. At least that's how it was mentioned in a newspaper article she had read a few months ago. It seemed to come from a very high-ranking guy like a mayor or governor.

While Sophie was dreaming and thinking about whether this newspaper article had the opposite effect, she stopped by a sofa that didn't fit in among all the wooden furniture and was approached by a friendly-looking gentleman with a moustache, dark eyes and a wedding ring.

"Welcome, lady. Have you found something you like? This sofa was custom-made for a rich tycoon from Detroit, but due to lack of space he could not take the valuable piece of furniture home, so we are selling it. Would you like to sit down for a moment?"

Sophie was quite away from his voice, was quick and tough and almost seemed to be acting as if he was carrying this line with him with each of the individual pieces. Now she had to play along.

"Yes, actually, but I think the sofa is a bit too big for my flat. Do you perhaps have a wing chair or something similar?"

Sophie had never bought furniture before. None this big, and not in such a dubious shop as this one, where she knew that behind the façade was actually the biggest turnover.

"Sure. Please follow me."

Sophie followed the man and watched his back. She only now noticed that he was much smaller than she was and limping a little. Did he know anything about the speakeasy or was he just a salesman without any idea? While the man recited something to her about a blood-red wing chair that stood between a wardrobe and a grandfather clock, her mind was on Oswald and she just nodded as the salesman continued.

"...that is why the wing chair is now with us. It's only meant for one person and it's very bulky because it takes up quite a bit of space, but it's all the more comfortable because of that. Please sit down once, my lady."

"Yes, thank you."

Sophie did as she was advised and she felt a pleasant sense of well-being as she sat there. She felt as if she were a villain in that armchair and tried to portray that explicitly.

"The price is uniquely low and really wonderful. The delivery is done by us as well, no matter where they live, no matter if they have a lift or not, we deliver it to them to the place where they want the piece of furniture," the salesman explained.

"That sounds really good. And it sits very well here too, "Sophie replied, "Do you know if I can use this voucher for the wing chair as well?"

Sophie pulled Michael's discount voucher out of her bag. The shop assistant got a little fright and suddenly felt threatened when she realised that the voucher was signed by Michael and nodded.

"Of course, my lady. If you had said that a little earlier, we wouldn't have had to discuss it so long. I didn't realise you were an acquaintance, "he apologised and read Sophie's name from the page, "Miss Cox."

"That's not a problem. I didn't remember I had this one with me."

"Shall we discuss business then, as well as delivery?"

"By all means. I think after that I recommended some refreshment as well."

The salesman smiled sheepishly and nodded.

"Indeed."

Suddenly the salesman was quite different. The text he used to recite disappeared and it seemed as if Sophie had now joined the inner circle of customers where she was treated better. There was still a restlessness in her that worried her, but she tried to keep the window of her worries closed, and only let the strong character and courage come forward, so as not to give the salesman the wrong idea.

It was not ten minutes later and Sophie was a little poorer in money but had a wing chair that she herself mentally described as diabolical. When everything was signed and a delivery date was also agreed, the salesman led her to the red door to enter the speakeasy and had the gentleman there step aside. Sophie was an "honoured guest" and did not have to say the code word, he explained.

Sophie was quite taken with this tour and the salesman did not leave her alone until she had sat down at the bar. At first the salesman wanted to take her to a table right next to the pianist, but Sophie tried to assert her character and was able to take a seat at the bar. And there he was... Oswald continued to please his customers and Sophie was relieved about that at least. From what he had explained to her, Oswald was an important figure around Clive and if he were dead, he probably wouldn't be serving patrons so happily and with a smile.

It took a little longer than last time for Oswald to come to her, but he was just as jolly and in good spirits as the first time.

"Good evening Mrs Cox. Nice to have you here today. I can offer you the special fire salamander cocktail today."

"That sounds spicy, "Sophie replied, "What's in it?"

"Old family recipe. I can only promise you this much, salt and pepper are ingredients."

Oswald was head over heels in delight that spilled over to Sophie and gave her all the hope she needed to remain here that evening.

"I'll take one and try it."

"Very full."

As Oswald mixed the cocktail, Sophie watched all the ingredients he put in, but most of the bottles were either completely black and unlabelled or they were too far away from her. When Oswald returned and placed the red-orange drink in front of Sophie, she was surprised to receive no olives.

"The food is in it. Enjoy the drink," Oswald said.

Sophie examined the liquid and noticed that it was a little stiff, but not too much that it bothered. She took a sip and got a cool shock. It tasted of tomatoes and carrots and a strong spirit. In between there were some spicy moments where she tasted the pepper very intensely. Or it was something else. Her face contorted several times from a delighted smile to a surprised chuckle and she took a second sip. Oswald, who stood there and lingered the entire time, was happy that the fire salamander cocktail was apparently a success.

"It's delicious. There is something refreshing yet tingling about it. Are the vegetables in it?" wanted to know Sophie, "carrot or tomato? Or both?"

"Good guess. Both are in it. it gives the taste a much stronger spice. At the same time, we also have a special flavour enhancer, as we call it, that we get from us Mexico. It gives the whole thing the pep it needs to have that flavour."

"Really fascinating."

Sophie was enchanted by this. It really did taste delicious. She took more sips and before she knew it, she had consumed the entire drink and was happy to order a second one.

"Be careful though, too much is not good either and you will have a stomach ache, " Oswald returned.

"I'll be careful, I've got a responsible bartender here with me".

Oswald smiled.

"I'm glad we're getting along so well."

"Likewise," Sophie returned.

It almost seemed as if nothing had ever happened and everything with Clive was a dream. Sophie wished she could get to the point quickly so she could leave quickly too, but the second cocktail made her feel like she wanted to stay longer. She thought about how cosy it actually was here and especially that there was no dog to disturb her.

"You know, Oswald, I'm glad to be here, "Sophie started to tell, "I've been to another speakeasy before and there's a dog that just annoys everyone there. Here it's just quiet and nice and I like that a lot."

Oswald bowed.

"It's a strange compliment, but I'll gladly accept it. I notice you're already an acquaintance in these things."

"You always have to try something new to learn something. That's what I like about life. There's so much to enjoy and discover, it's fun to get out of your comfort zone. And somehow... somehow I actually came here to make a friend, and now I guess you can call me a regular, can't you?"

Oswald lost his smile for a moment, but quickly found it again when he noticed that two chairs next to Sophie the gentleman had run out of drink and Oswald excused himself briefly. He returned a few minutes later.

"Yes, that has been a real pity, and I apologise again for everything."

"That's no problem at all. But... But is Clive all right?"

Sophie had spoken it now and she felt the warmth she had received return to that glass figure where it could shatter at any moment. Oswald remained a little quiet, seemingly intent on admiring the piano player's last notes, before he found an answer.

"You met him?"

"Yes. I met him in the park with a woman. Just like they said."

"I don't like to interfere with such problems, and I think it's a good thing not to, but there's one thing you must tell me now, Miss Cox -"

"Sophie will do."

"Sophie, right, sorry. You're not in a relationship with Clive in any way, are you?"

Sophie gave a brief embarrassed smile and denied the question.

"He's just a friend. We don't have anything and I'm not attracted to him either. Clive is weird, I think that's the best way I would describe him. He always has been and always will be, that's what Randall mentioned."

Sophie was quite amazed that she managed to keep up her lies and charades. She didn't blame the alcohol, but more her confidence that she now had. She finished her second cocktail with a small smudge on the bar.

"You don't seem like a gentleman's lady from Clive either. He's peculiar, that's definitely a good description."

"And where is he now?" inquired Sophie, thinking of the counter-question Oswald had asked.

Once again Oswald remained quiet and listened to the beginning of the new piece. This time the piano was accompanied by a saxophone. As the first guests trickled in, it got louder and the smoke from the cigarettes enveloped the chandeliers Sophie liked. Then it occurred to her that she could also buy another chandelier here, should that be possible. Then Oswald replied.

"I don't know. Apparently the boss has found it. But I'm not allowed to talk about it any more. That would be a big mistake on my part."

Sophie was not happy about this. A sadness made itself felt in her stomach. Oswald didn't know the answer and maybe it was just as well. The certainty of having a confirmation is the last dagger to losing hope. Sophie had to come down from it all and adjust to the fact that she could probably never see Clive again. She had settled too much into this role of being a friend and now she had to get out of this acting.

"Thank you for everything, Oswald, " were Sophie's last words before Oswald excused himself again to serve another customer.

***

Oswald had spoken to Sophie a little after he returned, but there was something in the air that had destroyed the initial joy of the reunion. It was Clive, the bond that had united Sophie and Oswald at the beginning had become loose and was now hanging down.

To somehow bring the conversation back to life, Sophie tried to change the subject to something she knew and enjoyed doing; painting. She talked to him about the photos and paintings that were on display and also wanted to know if one of her paintings could be exhibited. She had said this more in jest, of course, but it made for a very intense conversation for almost an hour, where Oswald only had to serve another customer a few times. Only now, it was around nine o'clock in the evening, more and more guests arrived and the full band was present.

The music had fixed on something new, it seemed like a fabulous dream where Sophie could fly, where she could step out of the comfort zone of her life and forget everything that had happened. With each new note, she became more distant from reality and the cruelty she herself had in her body that tormented her. She listened to the music and forgot herself. Oswald didn't come back at some point and Sophie ordered a coffee with a shot of alcohol from another bartender to calm down a bit. It was the first time she had turned her back on the bar and listened to the music.

How time passed she didn't know, but at some point Michael came out of the door the two guards were protecting, followed by his two brothers. They were like a flare, pervading the room from one end to the other and everyone seemed to be watching them. Even the music now seemed as if it had been composed for the three of them and acted as if it were their anthem. They sat down on an empty table, right next to the grandstand in the middle, which had been the only empty table the last time they had been there, and ordered themselves something to drink.

Sophie was sobering up and knew it would be stupid to go to them to ask how Clive was doing. It had only been a few hours since one of the brothers had come to her door and handed over the envelope, which had to be one of the happiest moments of happiness she could imagine. That's why she remained at the bar listening to the music, thinking about leaving the place around midnight to get ready to go to Donaldson the next day.

But things turned out differently than she had planned. Michael had noticed her, and came to see her only a few minutes after his arrival.

"Good evening, Miss Cox. I am quite surprised to see you back so soon. Are you enjoying your time with us?"

"Good evening, "Sophie greeted him with a false composure, "Yes by all means. It's only the second time I've been here, but there's so much to try, I don't know what all to drink. You'll have to come again."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Thank you for the envelope too. I've already found a wing chair that I liked."

Michael seemed very pleased about this and smiled. It was a childish smile, almost like a boy who had just received an ice cream because he had got a good grade. Sophie wasn't that good at buttering someone up, but she liked being able to exert a little power with it and make Michael into a kind of lapdog. At least that was how it was in her mind.

"That is exceedingly good. It pleases me that at the end of the day we are both parties happy and satisfied. I commend myself and wish you another pleasant evening, Miss Cox."

"Likewise."

As quickly as Michael had arrived, he was gone. Sophie was relieved and thought she had to have another drink now, rather she left so as not to seem rude and ordered herself another cocktail from the third bartender that evening, which somehow made its cool taste through fresh mint and gargle water.

It was shortly before midnight when Sophie set off home, still a little drunk. Just when it was getting so crowded that someone wanted to sit down next to her. Michael and his siblings were no longer there, so Sophie went home without any detours and quickly fell asleep.

6915 words (15.065 words in total)

The Chisel Club was in a vastly different part of town than the Golden Vanderbilt. Instead of being hidden in the spare room of a pharmacy, it was located in the back of an actual restaurant, behind thick brick walls and solid doors. They had two different entrances, too, to avoid innocent restaurant customers from discovering what lay behind them.

Julian had only been to the Chisel Club twice. It wasn't exactly the best look to frequent an establishment so close to the type of place he worked, especially with a boss like Doyle. To spare himself endless lectures about business loyalty and countless threats of unemployment, it was easier to get the alcohol he did need at the Golden Vanderbilt. Even though the quality was poor, the prices were cheaper, so, in a way, it balanced itself out.

A solitary man stood outside the door of the Chisel Club. To any other person who didn't know what laid inside, he probably looked like any other pedestrian or loiterer; to those who knew, however, he was the way in.

They approached him together, grouping up to cover each others' blind spots. Even though the Chisel Club and the Golden Vanderbilt could both be described as sinful and unlawful places, something about the Chisel Club made it feel all the more clandestine and secretive. With the lack of formality at the Golden Vanderbilt, it felt less like illegal activity and more like an everyday Tuesday night. But with the Chisel Club, it felt both exciting and dangerous, like a small adventure with the threat of consequences that were more than worth the rewards.

"Some weather we've been having, eh?" the man said, eyeing them once. It was evident he was listening for their response, probably waiting for a certain key phrase to let him know that they were to be trusted (or, if not trusted, at least smart enough to be in the loop). The group stared at each other blankly, until Julian spoke up.

"Not as bad as my great aunt Gladys in Poughkeepsie," he said, hoping he'd remembered correctly.

Recognition sparked in the man's eyes as he reached back to place his hand on the doorknob. "Welcome," he said, sounding much rather like he meant the opposite, a hidden "beware" behind his words. He sent them in, foreboding smile still glittering on his face.

After walking through a few cramped and dark hallways, they entered the Chisel Club.


It was crowded (as was to be expected; both times Julian had gone, the people were as close together as humanly possible. It was a wonder how the flappers out on the dance floor had any room to shimmy and Charleston about) and noisy, chatter overlapping with jazzy music that came not only from a pianist, but a trumpeter, a bassist, and a saxophonist. Julian had to bite down the urge to go and join them. He knew having a whole jazz band in the Golden Vanderbilt wasn't feasible, both cost-wise and space-wise, but it still ignited a pain in his musician's heart. What he would give to play with other people, other instruments.

They approached the counter, unconsciously grouping together. The grand yet dim atmosphere created a somewhat apprehensive attitude within them, and paired with the leering looks of a few patrons, the entire place felt suspicious.

Caroline was visibly uncomfortable inside, even if she'd put on the gorgeous pink dress, easily the nicest article of clothing she owned, and had made an effort to do her hair and makeup. While she couldn't exactly say that she'd been raised in wealth, she'd had a comfortable upbringing compared to her current situation. Being here reminded her of times she'd rather forget. Because of this, she instictively stood close to the others. She was afraid of what might happen if they got separated.

"How much for a Southside?" Julian asked. The barkeep looked up at him, and Julian was struck with a sudden bout of fondness for the Golden Vanderbilt. Even though he resented the place most of the time, the familiarity was welcome. The Chisel Club had none of the understated relaxedness the Golden Vanderbilt did, and instead replaced it with cool grandeur meant to wow, not welcome. Julian found himself looking at it all with distaste.

"One dollar," the man grunted.

Julian's eyebrows raised. "For a cocktail?" The man nodded. Julian looked back at the rest of the group, and saw they were just as shocked by the price as he was. He was about to refuse (and possibly even tell the bartender what exactly he thought of the high prices) when he took another look at the sea of patrons. Nearly everyone had a drink in their hand. If he wanted to blend in, he should probably have one too. No need to draw unnecessary suspicion early, especially if he wanted to ask questions. He had to look like he belonged.

Reluctantly, he dug around in his pocket for loose change, finally coming up with enough. The bartender scoffed, sweeping the change off the counter in a smooth motion, and busied himself in making the drink. When it was finally in Julian's hands, he turned less than enthusiastically to Caroline and Aloysius. "Anything for you two?"

Aloysius scanned across the chalkboard menu behind the bar, "I'll have.. the Last Word. Sounds interesting." He fished for fifty cents in his pocket and passed the two quarters to the bartender. Aloysius told him to keep the fifteen cent change and, unlike Sullivan, the man thanked him.

Caroline wanted a drink, but knew she wouldn't be able to pay for it. "Uhm, sure. Are you paying?" She noticed the look Julian shot her and was uncomfortable. "I just... I used the last of my spare change the other night."

Julian sighed. "Why not? But you owe me one."

Caroline nodded. "Fair enough." She didn't know what exactly that would be, but now didn't seem the most appropriate time to discuss it.

They motioned to the bartender to prepare a second Last Word. Julian shot her a look, which Caroline ignored. Soon after, the drink was ready. She wasn't sure if she liked the taste. But it was strong, and right now, that was most important.

Julian took a break from gulping down his overpriced drink to talk to Caroline and Aloysius. "Should we split up? We could cover more ground that way. And I don't think anyone will try anything here. From what I remember, they're pretty strict about enforcing the house rules and silencing any ruckus." He thought back to the other times he'd been there and vague memories of yelling men quickly silenced and removed came to mind. "We should be fine."

Aloysius agreed, but Caroline said nothing at first, as she did not feel comfortable in this place on her own.

"I would rather stick with someone, if that's alright. I feel very out of my element here."

Julian glanced at Aloysius before looking at Caroline. "You can come with me, if you'd like."

Caroline nodded. "Alright. Thank you." She followed behind him, hoping that he would take the lead in whatever they were about to do.

Aloysius stayed at the bar while the other two went off. His drink wasn't that good and he was contemplating pushing it aside and ordering a beer instead. Yet, he ended up slowly sipping at the sour drink. Even though he had the money, he'd rather not waste it fixing stupid mistakes such as ordering the wrong drink.

"I haven't seen you here before," the bartender said after a break in the crowd allowed him to stop filling cups and wipe them down instead, "Where'd your friends go?"

"Who knows. They aren't really my friends," Aloysius lied, the sour taste of the drink becoming stronger than before. He put it down and set it aside, "We work together. I've never had a proper drink before and they dragged me here along with them."

"Well, welcome to the Chisel Club. The password's 'not as bad as m-"

"-my great aunt Gladys in Poughkeepsiehe,'" Aloysius finished the man's statement, "I listened to my coworkers say it on the way in."

"You memorize things quickly!" the bartender exclaimed. He set down the glass he was cleaning nad held out his hand, "The name's Vincent. Good to meet you..?"

"Louis." Aloysius shook his hand then instinctively took a sip of his drink. He spit it back out when Vincent's back was turned. After wiping his mouth, Aloysius, sensing an oppurtunity, said, "My good friend Henry Grant-" Vincent's nose scrunched at the mention of his name "-, bless his soul, used to frequent this place. He used to tell me about all the fun I was missing out here."

"To be completely honest with you, Louis, I don't know what fun he was talking about. From what I've heard, the poor man was in debt up to his neck and was a nuisance to all the men and their women here. The boss absolutely hated him. Would throw a fit whenever his name was even said."

"How come?" Aloysius said.

Vincent's eyes darted back and forth. Despite just giving up plenty of information, he seemed especially wary about sharing whatever he was about to say. He leaned in across the bar and Aloysius did as well, turning his ear towards Vincent's mouth.

"Now, you don't repeat this to anyone, but.."

-

Julian wandered for a few minutes before choosing a table to sit at, Caroline behind him. She thought for a moment about how others that they talked to might percieve their relationship, but maybe they wouldn't have to elaborate. All she knew is that she felt safer in not being alone. As they walked, she held the overpriced drink like a lifeline, each sip having the right affect of numbing her to just how unpleasant the last few weeks had been.

He lingered by the piano for a while, watching the pianist at work. A lot of the tunes he recognized from his own playing, though this pianist stuck to the way it was written originally. Julian could tell he was classically trained and played each piece to a T. Julian had to resist from critiquing his technique; the whole point of jazz was that it was original and natural. It flowed and grew. You weren't supposed to play it as written. You were supposed to make your own flourishes and runs, your own trills and harmonies.

"How long have you been a pianist?" Caroline asked, hoping that small talk would make her less nervous.

"Oh, gosh," Julian said, trying to recall when he started. "Nearly twelve years now, I think. I started learning from my neighbor who had a piano when I was around nine or ten. Only been playing at the Vanderbilt since '26, though."

"My Julian loved music. He always used to say, yes humans can awfully cruel to each other... but we can't be that bad if we have music."

Julian smiled at the sentiment. "He sounds like a smart man." Then, as the words fully sunk in, he turned to Caroline. "Your Julian?"

Caroline felt her face turn red, realizing that this was the first time she'd told anyone in the group about her past. "I had a Julian. A long time ago. And yes, he was a smart man."

Julian simply smiled and nodded in response. He could tell Caroline was slightly uncomfortable talking about the other Julian, so he let the conversation die. "We should maybe go talk to some folks, don't you think?"

Caroline nodded. After tearing himself away from the music, he settled down at a table where a card game was in progress. He was dealt in without even confirming what game was occurring, though he suspected it wouldn't have mattered even if he had known. He'd never gotten the hang of card games. He played a few rounds to ingrain himself within their little group, and then braved the silence to inquire about Grant. As he did, Caroline stood as close as she could to pass as a spectator of the game. Still, she was sure to listen the best she could.

"Some night, huh, gentlemen?" he said. It seemed the easiest way to make conversation. Unfortunately, all he got in response was a few murmurs. Eventually, he decided to simply be straightforward.

"Say, you all wouldn't happen to be familiar with a certain man by the name of Henry Grant, would you?"

Some of the players looked at him blankly, whereas others had more colored reactions in response to his name.

"Good old Grant. Swindled him too many times to count. Rotten luck with cards, you know," a man with a trim mustache said to him, smiling. "Heard he got gunned down in some alleyway. If you had something to settle with him, you're outta luck." A laugh erupted from the table.

"Nothing to settle, no—" Julian started, but he was interrupted by another man.

"You'd be the first with no problem with Grant," he said, leaning over the table to look Julian in the eye, his seat neighbors leaning to the sides to avoid his broad shoulders. "Wasn't well liked around here. The only reason he kept coming was..." he trailed off. "You know, I'm not sure why he kept coming. It only ever drove his debt further and further."

"He kept hoping for some windfall so he could stick it to all of us, say 'I told you so,'" another man contributed. "Didn't even realize he didn't belong. Never have I seen a man so unaware of his own insignificance."

The table agreed, murmuring confirmation.

"He always used to make passes at my girl," a short man said, sounding grumpy.

"Mine too," said the broad-shouldered man. "Though I suppose that is one thing he wasn't absolutely horrid at. Women tended to like him. Or at least like him long enough to spend the night and leave." Another bout of laughter sounded.

"Heard he got engaged," another man said. "Though what woman would be crazy enough to tie the knot with him..." He whistled. "Bet she's real happy now he's dead."

"Aren't we all?" They all laughed again, toasting Grant's death, clinking glasses. Julian smiled, albeit strained, and excused himself.

He perused the Chisel Club for a few minutes after that and wondered if Caroline and Aloysius were having any more luck. His thoughts wandered briefly to Sophie, as well, wondering how things were faring at the Irish speakeasy. Eventually, he sat down at a table and sipped what little was left of his drink.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence, a seedy-looking man approached him. He had thinning hair, a wide frame, and a large nose.

"Heard you mentioned Henry Grant," he said, the normally friendly midwestern accent somehow made threatening and gruff on his tongue. "You a friend of his?"

"No," Julian denied hurriedly. "I only knew him, is all. Not friends in the slightest."

"It's not wise to be mentioning that name around here." The man looked left and right, almost as if he was paranoid even uttering the name once.

"I gathered," Julian groused. "Seems like he wasn't well liked."

"More than that," the man said, taking a seat beside him. "The boss had a personal problem with him."

Julian leaned forward, interested. "On account of his debt, right? I've been hearing he racked up quite the amount here."

"And on account of him being engaged to the boss's daughter."

"I beg your pardon?" Julian frowned, trying to make sense of the situation. Did Grant have more than one fiancé? "What do you mean, engaged?"

"I mean he meant to marry her, little Maddie Grace. Though I suppose she's not so little anymore... got to be at least nineteen, now, hasn't she?"

Maddie Grace... was that...? "Do you mean Madeleine Roy?" Julian asked. "She's the daughter? She's Maddie Grace?"

"Aye, if that's what she's calling herself now. Roy was her mother's name. I've just always known her as Maddie Grace Martin."

"Daughter of Thomas 'Gump' Martin," Julian finished. "Oh God." Gump Martin was the owner of a few speakeasies including the Chisel Club, and supplied tens more. He was an enigma of a gangster, and not much was known about him other than his name. As it turned out, his daughter had earned his aptitude for keeping secrets.

Still in shock, he got up, dazed. He thanked the man for his information and then set off, simply wandering for the first few minutes, trying to process it all.

Madeleine was the daughter of a mob boss. Madeleine was the daughter of a mob boss who hated Grant. Madeleine was the daughter of a mob boss who was owed money from Grant. Daughter of mob boss Madeleine was engaged to be married to in-debt, disliked, philanderer Grant.

Julian didn't want to jump to any conclusions. At some point - though it was difficult to tell exactly when from the haze of alcohol and smoke - he and Caroline shared a look.

They needed to find Aloysius, and Sophie as soon as possible, and tell them what they'd just learned. Then, the group need to find Madeleine. She was their one missing piece, the final key to the puzzle.

Julian only hoped she'd be easy to find.

2898 words (17963 in total)

Sophie was at police headquarters too early, as usual, and felt like a felon. A policeman took her to Donaldson's office where she could wait. It was strange to sit there and wait, she imagined what the other policemen thought. Maybe Sophie was the head of a gang or a mean little pickpocket?

While she waited there, she thought about who she was waiting for. Her friends or Donaldson? She fervently hoped that her friends would show up first, if Donaldson showed up before them, the terrible thought that something had happened to them would come true. Now she also remembered that she hadn't read anything about three deaths in the newspaper, whereas she hadn't paid any attention to such a multiple murder.

It seemed like she waited almost ten minutes or so for someone to approach the office. Through the cloudy frosted glass she could not make out who it was, only that it was one person. This gave her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. When the door opened and Donaldson entered, Sophie gave a short cry, almost as if her thoughts had come true.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Cox. You're here early," Donaldson greeted her, "How are you?"

He apparently ignored the short outcry or had not noticed it at all. Sophie was reassured by this.

"Yes, I'm always there a little before time."

"Have you found out anything? Or do you want to wait until the others are also present?"

He was about to sit down when he realised Sophie had nothing to drink.

"Would you like a glass of water? A tea or a coffee?"

"A tea please," Sophie replied, "Do you have any mint tea?"

"I think so. One moment please."

Once again Sophie was alone in the room and she couldn't help but get lost in her thoughts.

They are no longer alive and Donaldson is only in such a good mood to cheer me up. He did say it, didn't he, that I was a bit early? After all, maybe he sent someone to ask me to come down to the station about the three new deaths? I hope I'm wrong about everything... But no, he did say, that I could wait until the others arrive, so everybody is alive and fine.

Donaldson returned after an almost endless eternity and handed her a tray with a cup and pot. At the same time, he tidied up his office desk a little, put some documents aside and pushed the typewriter closer to him. Sophie put the tray back on the table and was about to pour herself a cup, but she was interrupted by Donaldson.

"Has something happened?" asked Sophie nervously.

"Why?" he replied, handing her the cup, "Watch it, hot."

"I just thought. I've been through some stuff and I'm a bit worried."

"It seems like it wasn't such a good idea to send you there. The Irish can be a bit mean sometimes. Probably worse than the Italians in the East," Donaldson explained.

"No. No, they were all nice, but that Clive..."

Sophie wasn't sure she wanted to talk about it yet, but she couldn't help it.

"I think Clive Corrnafola is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, so he... I was followed when I went to see Clive. You see, he no longer works at the speakeasy and he disappeared with a thousand dollars. After I found him, the next morning I got a thank you from one of the owners of the speakeasy for finding Clive."

Sophie paused for a moment.

"I feel so bad because I don't know what happened. I've been checking the daily papers every day for the last few days and the only moment of hope was when they pulled an unconscious man out of the lake who was trapped in a bag. But I don't know if that's Clive or if Clive is already lying murdered in a dresser somewhere."

Donaldson looked closely at Sophie again and noticed how she was trembling. He would have preferred to take her to hospital, but Sophie herself was no longer sure she could move from the police station.

"You've been through a lot. I'm really sorry about that, that I put you in my police work."

Donaldson, who had now been standing next to Sophie for the entire time, watching the cup of hot tea so that it wouldn't fall over, took a seat opposite her and took a deep breath.

"I know from Clive that he is not a very bright person. He's always being pushed from one side to the next, always where there's quick money to be made. But I don't think he's stupid enough to just die."

"But how can you be sure? How can you be sure that everything is OK with him?"

Sophie wanted to continue, but Donaldson interrupted her.

"This gentleman, the owner as you said, what did he discuss with you? Did he talk about him being dead already or how did he put it?"

Sophie thought, but the more she thought about it, the fuzzier the thoughts became and everything she had experienced in the last few days became murkier and sank into a deep lake. Sophie was on the verge of crying when she shook her head.

"I don't know anymore. I really don't know anymore."

"You see? It may be that the gang will only now take care of Clive. And no matter how unwise Clive is, he's bound to have smelt a rat and set off to get away from where he was after your visit."

Sophie was not yet convinced that she should believe Donaldson, it seemed so unreal and also somewhat easy to conclude the whole story. But she had no choice but to trust someone or she would bury herself in a hole forever because she had no answer. She looked at her teacup and noticed that the porcelain was quite classy for a police station and took a sip.

"I'm trying to make the best of the situation. But they don't know anything about his whereabouts?"

Aloysius walked into the police station in a two-piece suit and the nicest shoes he owned. He came from work and had almost forgotten about meeting back at the police station until Lillian asked him if he had anything planned for today. He sprinted to his car and, in his mission to meet the group as fast as possible, he forgot to take the subway and drove straight to the station. He wouldn't be surprised if some criminal was carving marks into the red paint right now.

He was led to Detective Donaldson's office by a secretary who eerily reminded him of his twin sister. Sophie was sitting in the room, sipping some brown liquid, while Donaldson talked to her.

"Am I late?" he asked hurriedly.

"You're early, actually," Detective Donaldson replied, laughing to himself.

Julian then wandered in, grim smile on his face. He waved at both Aloysius and Sophie, and shook Donaldson's hand, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Aloysius. Sophie. Detective."

Caroline was the last to arrive. It had beeen an uncomfortable, lonely few days, and made even worse when Julian had told her to keep the information she'd learned about Madeleine to herself. Still, they were finally meeting now, ready to share everything they'd learned and hopefully, finally come to the bottom of what exactly had happened that night.

Sophie could finally breathe in peace. She was so happy to see her friends that she put the cup down and hugged everyone warmly.

"I'm so glad to see you."

"Hello, I'm glad you all found your way here. Please feel free to take a seat. Would you like something to drink? We already have tea." Donaldson greeted them.

"Water, please," Aloysius said.

Julian waved his hand, an indication that he didn't want anything to drink. He had too much on his mind, like the bombshell of information about Madeleine.

Caroline shook her head. "Just water." She was tempted to have a drink, but figured it would probably be the best to maintain a clear mind.

A budding warmth spread through Sophie and it felt good to be alive. She knew she had made it, and so had the others. They were safe. There wasn't much conversation as Donaldson went to fetch more cups and drinks, but it was a silent, silent event where they did understand each other.

Donaldson came back to take a seat. He had a big smile on his lips.

"I am glad that you have all come here today. I was aware that it was a difficult and dangerous undertaking, so I am even more thrilled to hear results from you! But first, I'd like to share my own revelations." He withdrew his notebook with a flourish. "That number you gave me, that 722. I know you said it wasn't a date, since it appeared several times on different days in the planner, but it got me thinking. What if it did refer to a date, but the date referred to something else? A holiday, perhaps, or some other significance. And then I remembered how you mentioned Grant was religious. So I did some research into the significance of July 22nd, and you'll never guess what I found."

"Probably not," Julian quipped, "seeing as we couldn't decipher the number. I'd appreciate it if you could enlighten us."

Donaldson shot him a look before continuing. "The feast of Mary Magdalene falls on July 22. And Magdalene is a more archaic form of Madeleine. Which, as you told me, was the name of his fiancée. I believe that he used that as a nickname or a sort of code or shorthand in his planner for her. I can't imagine why he'd need one as obscure as that, but still. It seemed rational. More rational than any other explanation, at least."

The group nodded, murmuring in acceptance.

"Now," Donaldson said, clapping to punctuate the word, "what information do you all have?"

"I didn't find much, except Grant was in mounds of debt and, according to the bartender, slept with the boss's daughter. Vincent wouldn't tell me her name, though," Aloysius said. He took a sip of his water.

"Vincent?" the detective asked.

"The bartender, Vincent. He didn't tell me his last name and I didn't tell him mine."

"I didn't have so much success, " Sophie explained, "Somehow the person I was supposed to be looking for had disappeared because of theft. I did find Clive quickly, but he couldn't help me with regard to him. I met him once in the park with a woman and then in a hotel. Since then, there has been no trace of him..."

Julian had carried the information he'd found out this long, slightly unwilling to share it. A part of him worried about what sharing it might do. He'd known Madeleine before all of this, and even though he obviously didn't know anything about her given the revelations he'd only learned a few days ago, he still felt weirdly protective of her, somehow. He'd seen a side of her that he couldn't picture being mixed up in gangs or murders. Sure, she'd worked in a speakeasy, but she mostly stayed in the pharmacy part of it. To him, she was Madeleine Roy, a nineteen year old Chicago native interested in becoming a nurse. From the moment she was hired, she'd been nothing but cordial. How could she be the same Maddie Grace he'd heard about from the man in the Chisel Club?

Still, these people were his friends. They'd been through nearly two weeks of this. And they deserved to know.

Caroline looked over at Julian as he began to speak. He gave her a reassuring look. He was going to be the one to drop this revelation. She was grateful for that, at least.

She felt her heart pound as Julian cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. "Aloysius. About the boss's daughter." They all turned to him, and he instinctively wiped his hands on his pants. "I... uh. I found out more about her. There was this man, and... well. To put a long story short, it wasn't a testimony to Grant's infidelity. The boss's daughter was his fiancée."

Murmurs of confusion built up. Fiancée? Fiancée. Grant was engaged to the boss's daughter... what about Madeleine? Did he have two fiancées?

"I thought Miss Madeleine Roy was his fiancée," Donaldson asked, confused.

Sophie sat there, confused. She didn't really understand the meaning behind it and could show it openly. Her confusion was the best example of what happens when you're not paying attention. She would never have expected this...

"How is this possible?"

Julian nearly laughed at their reactions, solely for the fact that they were so similar to how his own had been. "Yeah. Miss Madeleine Roy is the daughter of the owner of the Chisel Club, who also happens to be Thomas 'Gump' Martin. Apparently Roy is her mother's last name, which she understandably goes by."

"So Madeleine Roy is the daughter of a mob boss, who owns a club that Grant owed massive amounts of money to. And Grant was engaged to her?" Donaldson laid out what had been cycling through Julian's mind for the past days aloud. "Well. That's definitely suspicious."

"I still..." Julian trailed off. "I know it's suspicious. And I don't want it to be true. But now it looks like either..." He stopped, too conflicted to continue.

"Either Madeleine or her father was behind Grant's murder," Detective Donaldson finished.

"You know," Caroline said, "it makes perfect sense. The question is, is she working tonight?"

There was silence for a few moments before Julian spoke. "She should be, if I remember her schedule correctly."

"Then let's go," Caroline said, without any trace of emotion.

"Hang on," Julian replied. "We should think about this a little. What if she finds out about us coming and tries to make a run for it?"

"That's true," Caroline remarked. Then, she went quiet, not able to think of a better idea.

"I can bring up the rear," said Donaldson. "I'll come in the cruiser and guard the entrances. I'll make sure she can't get away. Chances are, she might already know we're on to her. It's better to act quickly." He paused. "Do you all have a ride?"

Caroline shook her head.

Aloysius pulled his keys out of his pocket and dangled them in his hand, shaking them slightly for full effect. Whether it was intentional or unintentional, Aloysius refused to say, but he also held the keychain in a certain way so detective Donaldson and the others saw the Packard logo, "I do."

2,452 words (20,415 total)

For Sophie, it seemed strange to sit in Aloysius' car. There was only one row of seats so the two ladies squeezed in next to Aloysius while Julian sat on the folded convertible roof. It felt extremely cramped with everyone in it, to say the least. Maybe it was because the car was simply too small, or maybe it was the heat, or the feeling they that they were about to catch the reason Grant was dead. Whatever it was, it made a ride in a fast, expensive car feel anything but. Squeezed in with the others, they tried to get to the Golden Vanderbilt, having decided to confront Madeleine and finally learn the full story behind Grant's murder. It was the only thing they could do that was fair. It was only a matter of time before they would learn the full truth.

It was a very exciting moment for Sophie. Filled with a bale of euphoria to have the end in front of her soon, she was ready to give everything one last time to give this story a good ending.

Julian felt apprehensive about going to the Golden Vanderbilt. He had no idea how Madeleine would react, and a small voice in his head still believed the entire thing was all a misunderstanding, even though all signs pointed away from that conclusion. He asked the others to let him talk to Madeleine first, hoping that maybe he could get the truth out of her without too much drama, since he knew her best out of all of them. They agreed.

When they arrived in front of the pharmacies, everything felt a bit strange. It was different, at least Sophie felt a different kind of fate. This time it was not about a fancy cocktail or an elegant wine, but about a suspected murderer who was behind the walls. When they entered the pharmacy, Hamilton was behind the counters and Hoover came running out, pleased to see the four of them.

"Good evening," Sophie said.

Hamilton looked up at Sophie's greeting. He locked eyes with Julian and gave a slight head incline. "Latkowski."

Julian grinned grimly. "Hamilton."

Aloysius pat the dog's head then knelt down to scratch Hoover's belly, "How's it going, Hamilton? Madeleine not working today?"

Hamilton grunted in response to the first question. He continued to write something in a large book. No doubt Grant's old job of keeping track of the pharmacy and speakeasy's accounting.

"Maddie's wiping some tables in the back."

The four made eye contact with each other, and, without a further word or mention of gas for a silver Packard, dashed to the side door that led to the Golden Vanderbilt, Hoover weaving in and out of their legs.

They tumbled in, one after the other, frantic to catch Madeleine before she caught on. After they'd all hurried through the door and untangled their limbs, they looked up, coming face to face with Madeleine, who had frozen mid-table wipe. She looked... confused.

"Julian?" she asked, eyes wide with uncertainty. "What's going on?"

"Um..." Julian was unsure of how to reply. "Don't panic."

She still looked confused. "You're not making any sense." She let the rag drop on the table and started walking towards them.

Julian looked around for help, but no one seemed to want to be the one to break it to Madeleine that they were on to her secret and her involvement in Grant's murder. He took a deep breath in. Staring into Madeleine's wide and unsure eyes, he started.

"We just wanted to ask about Grant," he said as casually as he could muster. "Your fiancé. Former. Former fiancé." He stumbled over his words. God, why was this so hard? It felt like dealing with a skittish horse.

"Yes. Henry was my fiancé. Though I'm not... I'd rather not talk about him." It was subtle, but at the mention of Grant's name, Madeleine grew icy and closed off. It might've been his imagination, but Julian thought he could detect a slight bit of fear in her eyes.

Julian took another deep breath. "We went to the Chisel Club, Madeleine. We know you... we know about your father. We know about you."

"You didn't really believe that, did you?" Madeleine's eyes were still wide, but frantically so, like she was searching for an exit route. "It's not true, Julian, I promise."

"Still, don't you think it's better to tell that to the police?" Julian made a move towards her. She backed up, breathing heavily. He glanced away for a moment to see if he could get backup from the other three. Big mistake. Madeleine, sensing an opportunity, pushed through them, bolting towards the door. All of them stood still, too shocked to do anything. Only when Hoover started barking were they startled out of their stupor and all clambered over one another to leave through the same small doorway they entered through.

"Julian, what's going on?" Hamilton asked as they frantically piled into the lobby. "Madeleine just ran through here all upset. What'd you say to her?"

In between deep breaths, Julian tried to explain how there was no time to explain. Over Hoover's barking he head shouts from outside.

"Hey! Ma'am! Please! Ma'am, you can't— Miss Roy!" Detective Donaldson's voice sounded from outside. The group dashed out, leaving Hamilton in the pharmacy, even more confused than he had been.

The detective stood with his arms waving, pointing down the road. "The dumb dame stole my car!" he said spluttering, still apparently stupefied by Madeleine's impromptu robbery.

From one minute to the next, everything seemed to be in motion. Madeleine was in Donaldson's police car, speeding down the road after having some trouble getting started. The four friends ran as fast as they could back to Aloysius' car to give chase, not even thinking of taking Donaldson with them. Instead, Hoover jumped into the car with them. By the time Donaldson was waving both hands wildly in front of the pharmacy and shouting something, the car was already gone and the chase began.

The streets had come to life. Although it was late in the evening, lights seemed to still be on everywhere, as well as passers-by making the streets and alleys of Chicago unsafe. Aloysius drove at a rapid pace but with conscientiousness around the other vehicles to catch up with Madeleine. Even with a criminal running free at stake, he was still overly protective of his dearest automobile. It was strange; normally you would see a police car following the criminal, but on this day it was reversed. Somehow Madeleine had managed to get the siren on and with a loud sound it awakened the good citizens in some streets.

Almost once they had lost Madeleine, they could rely on Hoover, who somehow pointed to the right. The many intersections fooled the occupants as they drove along a wide main road, getting closer and closer to the police car.

The zigzag through the city grew longer and longer. No one knew where it would end. No one knew how long it would take Madeleine or them to give up.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Aloysius had to drive through into a park when Madeleine took this kind of shortcut. She rammed into a park bench and a street lamp that fell on the way and almost ran over a homeless man as she left the park again. Aloysius was still able to avoid the debris from the park bench, but the streetlight caused the car to hover for a short while before continuing with a loud bang and limb pain for everyone.

They could already see the lake as they left more roads behind and continued to follow the siren. Along the shore of Lake Michigan it was quieter than downtown. And above all, darker. They could only orient themselves by the sparse lanterns and the siren of the police car.

Madeleine passed through a barrier leading into the harbour and it seemed there was no way out. The chase turned into a slalom along boxes and sacks, past some workers and stray cats. Some of the passengers pointed at objects or people coming out of their corners after the police car had already passed.

At some point they could no longer hear the siren. A loud crash silenced the siren as the car appeared to have crashed into the lake. Aloysius came to a stop before they would meet the same fate and hurriedly got out, hoping to still save Madeleine.

The group was not sure if Madeleine had made it. Hoover ran around and wanted to jump into the water, but Sophie stopped him. A wet dog was no good. To keep him from running off again, Julian braved the dirt and smell radiating from him and scooped Hoover up into his arms, keeping them tight despite his numerous wiggly escape attempts. He kept his eyes darting along the water surface, searching for any sign of Madeleine.

"Is she there?" Aloysius said, walking to the side of the group so he could see over the edge of the dock, "Are there air bubbles?"

Someone mumbled in response. They didn't know if she survived. No one did. Safety features in cars were limited. She would have flown right into the windshield, right?

It wasn't a minute before the car was completely submerged and Madeleine emerged from the cold water gasping for help. A few cuts were on her forehead and her arm looked injured. She quickly realised that there was no way out for her and found a ladder in front of her where the group was already gathered to confront her.

"There's nowhere to run, Madeleine," Aloysius said. She tried to run but he tackled her quickly, pushing her back to the center of the group. His days playing football were coming in handy. The group circled her and Aloysius continued, "Detective Donaldson, whose car you drove into the lake, will be here in a minute. Tell us why you did it."

Madeleine's eyes scanned the four people surrounding her. She had thought of them as acquantences just a couple of days ago: patrons at the Golden Vanderbilt who would have no reason to solve Grant's case. Aloysius carelessly offered his condolences for her "loss," she chatted with Caroline one day.. oh. She should have known.

It was too late now. Madeleine took a deep breath and, visibly shaking, started talking, "I shouldn't have been with him in the first place. My father didn't like him, no one in my father's speakeasies did. He was more than a thousand dollars in debt and was constantly making a scene. Maybe that's what I liked about him. Like those crappy romance novels where the crummy guy ends up with the good girl and everything ends happily ever after," Madeleine laughed at the irony in her statement. The rest were listening attentively. Aloysius had a feeling she was sugar-coating the story by a little bit, but Grant wasn't alive to tell the other side of the story.

"He cheated on me, y'know? I would be working the front desk and he'd be hitting on girls trying to have a good time in the back. I saw him talking to you, once," Madeleine pointed at Caroline with a crooked finger. Her face was bright red. Just recounting the events were setting her off, "but I didn't say anything. I never said anything! He took women home with him while we were engaged, let alone him betting our wedding money away!"

"I wasn't going to ki- you know. It was originally my dad who wanted me to approach him amout the huge amount of debt he had with patrons of his speakeasies, especially the Chisel Club. He made me take the gun. He said, and I quote, 'Maddie Grace, I don't like this man you love, but I think you know he is tricky and deceitful. Maybe he is not dangerous or violent, but you can never be too safe.' Of course I listened to my father! So, I confronted him after work, after he talked to you," she motioned to Caroline again, "I said 'I know about the women!' and then he said he didn't know about no women. That got me. That really got me. He denied it again and again and again and- this happened."

"He and I had a passing moment in waiting in line for a restroom," Caroline said breathlessly. "It was nothing. You had absolutely nothing to be jealous of... no reason to do any of this!"

"I know you guys don't understand why I did what I did. But deep down, you've gotta know that I was right!" she started walking towards the group, ardently telling them how justified she was. They started slowly backing away as she approached.

When she saw how incredulous they were, she continued, "Do you know who my father is?! Gump Martin, that's who! They won't put me in jail! I have money, I have a pretty face, I'll get off with no more than a slap on the wrist for the car and a couple of service hou-"

Madeleine was cut off by the sound of police sirens blaring through the air. It was Donaldson with a new police car and crew in tow.

"Madeleine Grace Mart- Roy! You're under arrest for second degree murder and.." Detective Donaldson held up his band and yelled. He looked past the dock where bubbles were rising from the lake. The back bumper of his car was still visible, "theft and destruction of private property. You have the right to remain silent."

Detective Donaldson walked up to the woman and, without any resistance from her, handcuffed her hands behind her back. Her face was blank. The anger-fueled red was gone from her face. She looked past the new police cars where at least five police officers were watching her every move. She seemed like she was looking for someone. Her father, maybe. But he wasn't here and, judging by how angry he was at her and Grant's relationship, Aloysius assumed he wouldn't bail her out.

As she walked away, Aloysius was filled with accomplishment. Him, a lousy, unmarried businessman with no real family relations helped solve a murder. He did something of importance. He couldn't wait to write a letter to the Kontos, explaining what happened and giving solace to Grant's poor mother. Well, if they didn't read about it in the newspaper first.

Julian watched as the police led Madeleine away. Her story both satisfied him and left him more confused than before. It was so strange to see someone he thought he knew in such a foreign situation. At least he could rest easy now, knowing Grant's murder was solved. He sucked in a breath thinking about how Doyle would react. He lost an employee in Madeleine. Hopefully that would save Julian's skin from unemployment, given he had disobeyed Doyle's wishes. He blinked hard, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. He didn't want to think about Doyle right now.

Aloysius turned to the rest of the group once the police officers were out of earshot and sighed, "I could really go for a beer right now."

Julian gave a dry laugh. "You said it."

2,555 words (22,970 in total)

Epilogue, Part 1

It had been some time since Sophie had last thought about going to the speakeasy and maybe meeting someone who wasn't in her circle of friends. It was also the first time in a long time that Sophie thought about it being a weird summer. A completely weird summer that moved her to turn her life around a tiny bit, to see and enjoy what the moment brought and not always stay in a cave of loneliness, hiding from guilt and fear.

Sophie had changed. At least she realised that a new core had flared up inside her, giving her body that sense of change. Or was it because of her last meal? There wasn't much yet where Sophie could say at the end of a day that she had achieved success, but she could say that she now belonged to a new part, to a new group, where she knew she could only really grow there.

It all started with the small changes Sophie wanted to make. It was like a new diary she had started for herself. It started with little things like waking up at the same time every day except Saturday. This meant investing in three alarm clocks to wake her up at the same time in the morning. Finding her time when it was best to wake up took her almost seven weeks and she sometimes struggled with this block of not getting anything done.

Sophie also tried to arrange the evenings in such a way that she had a rhythm in them that made her feel connected but also new. At first, probably worse than waking up the next morning, she just lay in bed and tried to fall asleep somehow. But her head was so swollen with things she listed to fall asleep that at some point she gave it all up and moved in a new direction that she had no idea would help.

Sophie bought tons of books on the different arts and ways of relaxation from the Asian region and tried to change her life a little bit with them.

But even if she didn't change physically, those around her noticed that she was going in a new direction character-wise, putting herself on the right track, which (hopefully) made her more open to new things in life.

Things had also changed in her painting. Sophie wanted to create something new and was looking for a means to express this. She felt she needed to focus on something new in any case, rather than staying in the art itself. First she found her way in the music scene and went to concerts more often and then she just looked to spread herself to new art forms.

Then she processed her dreams and tried to paint them. Sometimes she let the brush guide her and sometimes her hand and it seemed like she didn't paint anything great, but Mr Bartlett was delighted with this eccentric style.

Of course, there were days when Sophie just longed to go back to the days when uncertainty was somewhat distorted by the Golden Vanderbilt. She felt much more stable and independent in retrospect, as if she were in the middle of life instead of a hidden mouse in a cave somewhere.

Presumably this was also the trigger to do something with life when the boredom and monotony returned and turned everything into a sleepy nest. Sophie wanted to go back. Back to such a tone where it had felt different. That seemed to be the trigger for everything leading up to that one day in February.

***

It was on a cold day in February when Sophie opened her flat door a new time and closed it behind her, leaving her street with a determination she had been carrying for several days. The cooler and snowier the days became, the more endless the hours seemed when Sophie simply painted.

She had set herself a goal. A goal that she wanted to fulfil and there was no one to stop her. Not even Liam. When Sophie had found out that her sister Luisa was pregnant a second time, she had wanted to sort out everything there was to sort out with her. Sophie had sat down there in mid-January to create an outline of exactly what she wanted to talk to Luisa about, and it always came down to Liam. Sophie didn't want to blame Liam at all for everything but wanted to work on talking to her sister in a constructive environment about what had been on her mind for so long.

Liam had never stopped moving on. He was always making new messes and creating a danger for his wife and children. And Sophie was somehow the one to take the fall. She vaguely remembered Thanksgiving, when Liam had stood at her front door, completely drunk, and slept over because Sophie's heart couldn't send him away.

But that had changed everything. From now on, Sophie wanted to be this new person she had always talked to and dreamed about, so now was the time to bury the past and move into the future with a good light, where the roots of childhood no longer had a hold on her.

The snow was cleared away as quickly as possible and Sophie was pleased to make it to her sister's flat on slippery but dry feet. Sophie knew that Liam wasn't there. So there was nothing to stop her, and within a few minutes, she was inside, in a warm room by the fireplace, where Sophie's nephew was lying in his cradle, trying to reach for the ceiling with his tiny little hands.

It was a smell Sophie didn't like, when she first entered the flat. It was all over the flat, like a gauzy layer over the furniture, the walls and the rooms. It was indescribable, it was pungent and memorable. It was not disgusting, it merely reminded her of something she had done herself. Sophie couldn't understand how Luisa, at her age, could live here and give free rein to her life with her child.

Luisa, Sophie's sister, looked much younger than Sophie. At least that's how she looked in Sophie's eyes, even though she was older. You could already see the belly, and Luisa expected to give birth next June.

Sophie had only just settled in and had to admit that she hadn't been there for ages. She was ready to be pointed out in a way by her sister, but all Luisa asked her was when she was allowed to sit down as if she would like some tea.

There Sophie sat, almost alone in the parlour, waiting for her sister to finally bring her tea. While she was still trying to get her words right, and completely upset because what she had planned didn't happen, she thought about what she would do in the evening. It seemed like a dangerous path that appeared in front of her, almost like a crumbling bridge that stood between two cliffs and where Sophie now had to walk to reach her destination.

"Here's the tea," her sister said as she came out of the kitchen with a tray, "It's still hot. Don't burn your mouth."

"Thank you," Sophie murmured softly, saying nothing else in reply. She burned her fingers touching the tea kettle and hoped Luisa hadn't caught Sophie doing it....

"I told you."

"I know..." replied Sophie.

"How are you?" Luisa asked, after making sure her son was all right.

"Very well. I'm working on a new painting, something like that."

"Something like that?"

"Yes, well it's several paintings that need to be put together so that it makes sense as a whole. Like a triptych."

Luisa looked at her as if she hadn't understood anything just then.

"A triptych is a painting consisting of three different parts that together can tell a story. At least, that's what I think it is," Sophie explained.

"I see. And how did you get the inspiration for that?" Her sister wanted to know.

"I wanted to draw some kind of story at first, but somehow that would make too many pictures, so I sought advice from churches and found some very pretty altars that had triptychs, so I wanted to give it a try."

"Very nice. You've never been much of a churchgoer."

"But only because the priest once almost got his vestments on the candles and torched the whole building."

Luisa laughed.

"Oh yes, that was still back then with the parents."

"True."

Sophie vividly remembered when they all had to leave the church as the priest climbed out of his robe and then some people put it out with makeshift buckets of water. It was a strange sight that had even made it into the daily newspapers back in London. But it was more the memory of her parents that hurt and Sophie wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible.

"So, what do you do all day?"

"I've turned back to embroidery. It's so much fun to create something that you can wear later that I use up more wool than I can actually give away, "Luisa replied, "Do you still need a scarf or a hat. I still have some in my wardrobe, some in colours you'll like."

"I think I'll pass on that," Sophie replied with a laugh, "Then I'll have to scratch my hair all day again and then it will look unkempt and you know how long it takes me to get it looking like that again so I can go out on the street."

"Halloween is what they call it here in the US. That's on 31 October and you can go out on the street without a costume then."

"I know that."

Sophie grumbled, remembering the years in Ohio when they wore funny masks and wandered around.

"But then of course I'd need you too, otherwise the haunt wouldn't work."

"Your counter is a bit late, Sophie, "Luisa said, "But it gives me an idea to knit a costume for Liam."

Luisa laughed. Sophie followed suit and thought of Liam as a mummy. She had seen a real one when she was in the museum and was convinced that Liam could very well be a mummy.

"It's nice to reminisce. It's been a really long time since we last saw each other. These phone calls and the little letter writing isn't the right thing to do when you want to see each other. In fact, I think it's far worse than not seeing each other or contacting each other, "Luisa spoke calmly, "It's been a few years since we just sat and talked around. Imagined things..."

"Like we used to, on summer nights, dreaming about where we'd be in ten years, "Sophie continued the thought.

"Exactly."

"You were really obsessed with coming to the big city one day, "Sophie mused.

"And you had nothing else on your mind except becoming an artist."

"I know. And I'm still working on it," Sophie said.

"I know. And I also know that one day you'll make it big."

"Thank you."

Sophie was glad that the ball of contentment in her came the strength to sit here. But it also made her uncomfortable; the longer she spent sitting here, the longer it all dragged out, and it only caused more problems the further she wanted to stray from the real reason for the visit.

But of course she enjoyed the time with Luisa. Sophie tried to come up with more little details from childhood to make Luisa laugh and her sister then did the same to get to that point of making Sophie laugh. It started with nice and simple memories, like collecting shells at the seaside, where Sophie was caught by a wave and lost the bucket of shells, which they then found on the beach weeks later, or the time Luisa climbed over a fence onto the heath and got tangled up and had to walk home half-naked. The dress stayed there for almost two weeks and was the talk of the village pub.

Luisa rose and took a photo frame she had spread around the flat and sat down with Sophie.

"Let's reminisce a little more."

"Good idea," Sophie replied.

Just then Sophie wondered if she should bring one too. But she didn't remember Luisa ever mentioning anything. Besides, she didn't have any photos of herself or anyone.

"See that photo? That was me when I was a nine. We went to a photo studio especially for that. Do you remember that?"

"Great. You had long hair back then."

"Yes. Dad was always against it," Luisa explained, "Since he passed away I've had it cut short."

"What about this one?" interjected Sophie, pointing to one where Luisa was standing in front of a carousel. Sophie could barely remember that one.

"That was at the fair in Norwich! I was ten there. It's every year." she babbled, "We could go together when we're old one day and want to go back to England!"

"Yes."

Sophie was disappointed not to remember.

"And what about that?"

They delved further into the world of the past. It was a nostalgic trip to little memories. Some of them Sophie still knew from when she went to school with Luisa, others were brand new.

Especially from her time in England, she had little idea what the family was like. It made her feel good to have these memories. It made Sophie happy to have been there and marvelled at Luisa's comment about what an abstruse family they have compared to Liam.

It was as if Sophie had cleared out an old box of clothes, where she found things she could no longer remember. At some point it was strange because she wasn't that old yet and yet she knew she had seen enough in life that she counted as old. It gave her a lift when she realised that she belonged to a group, they were lucky to be alive.

Luisa, who was rarely interrupted by her son, also enjoyed the time and it really seemed as if they were young children again, enjoying life without consequences and worries.

At one point Luisa got into some embarrassing situations with Liam, which Sophie could laugh heartily about, but also reminded her to get back to the point.

"Well Luisa, I need to talk about other things too. Things that I didn't experience in childhood, but that I remembered only half a year ago. There are some people involved, including Liam, and I want you to listen to me. Is that okay with you?"

Luisa nodded.

"Absolutely. I'll listen to you."

"Well... it all started like this..."

Sophie took a deep breath and began to talk.

"It's strange to talk about it because it's kind of a completely interconnected story. It was a few months ago last summer when I met three people. Let's say two new ones and one I already knew a little bit at Golden Vanderbilt. It was just after I had come back from Canada with Liam and again I had to try a bit to make the best of the situation he had put me in. It's all kind of interconnected, with the people I met, Liam and Grant. I don't know if you're that familiar with all of Liam's work, but Grant was a work colleague of his who was murdered. Murdered by a woman who also worked there. So it actually started with being in the wrong place at the wrong time and it all took its course... probably why I'm sitting here today."

Sophie, unsure of how exactly to describe what she was painting, only came to an end when the afternoon had turned to eve and it was already getting darker in the sky. The sun was disappearing behind the prairies of the Midwest when, throughout her recounting of the last few months and her little adventure, Sophie had the idea of wrapping it all up so that she could include Liam. This way she could kill two birds with one stone.

Sophie was unsure how to proceed, but once she was deeper into the whole story, it felt like a planned dam burst. It pressed harder and harder against her chest, and the air became tighter, but with each new sentence started, with each new nod from her sister, Sophie felt herself moving in a direction where she could feel comfortable. At one point she wasn't even thinking exactly what she was saying, it seemed like a script she was reading off, falling over from the one case around Grant and Madeleine to Liam.

Sophie thought Luisa would object or interject something, because even after all, Liam was her husband, but nothing came from her side and she listened as Sophie continued to speak, clutching her strap so as not to expand or become snide. She always kept her opinions to herself in this monologue, remaining quiet when the toddler caught her eye for a moment and made a sound, and then continuing as if nothing had happened.

In the end, when there was a real ending, Sophie sat there with the cup of tea, which was now completely cold, thinking that she had to go on with the story because she had been busy with it all day, but she did nothing. She kept silent at her sister, abrupt as it had come.

"Well?" Sophie added when, after a few minutes of silence, the quiet made her uncomfortable.

"That's a big mess you've been through."

Luisa fell silent after saying that one sentence. Sophie couldn't directly interpret how Luisa seemed, but she knew that despite the coolness she radiated, thoughts were running riot inside her. When Sophie was already lost in thought herself, and the situation was making her more uncomfortable, Luisa continued.

"Thank you for telling me that."

Sophie smiled. Even though it was hesitant, it seemed genuine.

"Liam is not a specimen to recommend to everyone, Sophie. I know that and I know whom I was tying the knot with when I met him. I wouldn't call Liam difficult. He has many flaws - more even than virtues, I admit. He's daredevil, stupid and has this quality of running his mouth too full. And yet..." Luisa told me, looking at Sophie, "what were you thinking when you came to me? Please don't get me wrong; do you think I'm going to get up, take the child and pack my bags?"

"I... don't know."

Sophie had to admit to herself that she didn't really know what to say. She had no idea how to proceed and suddenly, only at this moment, everything she had said and planned seemed like a pile of hot air.

"Sophie, I'm still thanking you. I mean it when I tell you that it means a lot to me that you care about me so much and you still try to take it easy. But in the end, it is also my decision that I carry within me to continue a life that I have started. Sophie, you have to promise me something; even though this conversation will never leave this room, you have still shown a sign of courage to put yourself in the family and thus create something that is beneficial to you. Did you not notice what you did? Did you see that you yourself decided to do something, to achieve something? Now look where I stand and where you stand," Luisa explained, "I am married, it will be difficult for me to find somewhere to achieve something, but you, you still have so much ahead of you, where you should seriously think about what you want to achieve. All roads and doors are still open to you and there is everything you can do."

"I understand what you're saying," Sophie spoke meekly.

"Sophie, I'm not you. You worry too much, about me, even though I worry too much about you. Start a life where you do what you said to me today. Try to build a life that you can enjoy."

Sophie nodded slowly, not noticing Luisa coming up to her to hug her.

"In this life you can run, Sophie, and I can only walk. As children we could run together, but now, you're the only one who still has the breath. Make something of it."

Sophie wasn't so sure at the beginning what Luisa meant by that. It was only when the bond between them grew longer and Sophie finally came out of the flat at dusk and waded through the snow that she gradually understood what her older sister had meant.

***

Sophie's life changed with each new step she took. At first she didn't notice because there were small steps, but they grew bigger and longer with each new day, almost as if she was mentally outgrowing herself.

She had recovered all the private worries in the days that had plagued her for the last few months. There was a new high in the field of her art. After the exhibition organised by Mister Bartlett last September, there were more customers interested in Sophie's art. She was very pleased about this and at the same time disappointed not to be recognised as a major artist.

She had received significantly more commissions in the autumn and winter, which had caused her a lot of worry, but in the meantime, even after finally meeting with her sister and talking about everything, she felt she could go forward with a new strength to conquer everything and everyone. It seemed in her life that she could do and achieve anything, because the worst was already behind her.

She kept in touch with her friends and they met regularly at Golden Vanderbilt. Even though she would never become a fan of Hoover, she had vowed to leave the dog alone and also to draw a picture of him once in order to sell it spontaneously to an interested party.

With Liam, she continued to maintain a rather pleasant contact and yet she always avoided seeing him when it was just the two of them in a room. She also "quit" her job at the speakeasy to go to Canada with him, and was glad that no one resented her. Things could really only go uphill for Sophie.

***

On one of the many days when she didn't know whether it was a Tuesday or a Wednesday, she had slept in so late again that the afternoon was already dawning when she got out of bed. She had painted too long the night before and had forgotten to look at the clock. But she liked it. Even if the initial difficulties meant that she now had to draw something when instructed to do so, she could still prepare herself and draw anything that came to mind, as long as it was within the realms of possibility.

Sophie had received a letter. A letter with a seal, which she had only received once before from Mr Bartlett. She was quite surprised about it, she had met him just three or four days before and had talked to him about the future. Sophie was unaware that Mister Bartlett was about to embark on a new path, and there was something in his letter that completely threw Sophie for a loop. She was invited to come to New York City to exhibit some of her work. It was a small miracle and it took Sophie some time to comprehend it all.

She had pinched herself, several times in fact, to see if she really wasn't dreaming, because this was such a leap forward for her that she could hardly believe the letter was real. She was glad it was February and not April, otherwise she would have thought it was a joke that had played on her emotions.

Sophie used the rest of the day to get out the joy that was growing inside her like a child and ran around Chicago full of fun and laughter. At first it was just a quick walk and a big grin, but with each street corner it grew bigger and she realised what had happened. A little moment where she finally got to celebrate.

***

It was around this time that Sophie had started keeping a diary and also painting the triptych. She had an idea that had been on her mind for a while and wanted to realise it before she travelled to New York City, so her life was completely taken up by writing and painting for the next few days. During the hours, she could not remember the last time she was so intensely at work and let nothing else enter her mind except the picture she had in her mind's eye.

As the pages of her diary became fuller and the pages were inked, the three canvases became more and more colourful and sombre. It was a mix of good times and bad times that she wanted to portray in a spectacle that everyone could recognise and feel. She thought of some paintings by French Impressionists and had reached an indulgence that one day she would be able to exhibit in Paris.

Sophie, forgotten in her dreams, had to think of something Liam had once said to her, probably the only thing he had ever said in a sober state without seeming stupid.

" Those who dream forever don't achieve their goals. Only those who work hard can make it."

It brought her back to reality, hard reality, where she continued to work to achieve what she always wanted, to one day have the same thing she had now, only not in an unknown flat. And there, too, she agreed with her sister Luisa, Sophie could still run. She could still run and achieve what they had always dreamed of in childhood.

---

"Do you, Bethany Mills, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," Aloysius's cousin answered. She looked as if she was in a love-induced daze. Her eyes had never left her future husband the entire ceremony.

Aloysius was sitting in a pew next to his brother, George, and twin sister, Kathryn. His older sister, Olivia, was the maid of honor, and her husband was busy with work and unable to make it to the ceremony. A likely story. Before the wedding began, dad had ranted about how proud he was of George in his finest army uniform. He was a Sergeant Major now, out doing the "Lord' work" as dad called it. Yet, despite the praise he received from his father, he was ready for the next chapter in his life.

"I'm ready to move on," George confided, taking a sip of some beer Aloysius had smuggled him. They were resting in their parents' library while the rest of the family mingled several rooms away, "I like what I do, don't get me wrong, and this experience will get me far in life. But, I have done this for six years now. I want to do other things."

"I always envied you, you know. You got to do what you wanted: skip college, live in Hawaii. Hell, you even lived with a woman who wasn't your wife and dad hardly cared!"

"Dad likes you. He just doesn't show it."

"Give me a break," Aloysius groaned, but something about the comment stuck to him. George had said it before, when Aloysius left for Princeton, and then when he moved from Pittsburg to Chicago. He never believed it. Just the other day, he told Raymond that Mr. Mills Sr. was a cold-hearted, no good, sonovabitch... then why was the statement George probably put no thought into resonating with him so much?

Aloysius barely watched his cousin's wedding ceremony. He didn't know this cousin. All he knew was that she once pushed him into a creek when he was four and that her father was wealthier than his.

For some reason, Aloysius couldn't help but think about Madeleine and the entire incident while watching the wedding. This must have been what she was hoping for: a beautiful dress, the man of her dreams, and a happy family. Man, that didn't happen. Grant was now dead, Madeleine was sentenced forty years to life in prison, and Aloysius hadn't talked to the group that solved the murder for quite a while. In fact, Grant hadn't crossed his mind for months. He thought about the friends he made often, especially Julian, who he saw at the Golden Vanderbilt, but he hadn't actually thought about the thing that brought them all together.

"Do you, Michael Quantil, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," Bethany's soon-to-be-husband was much less enthusiastic about his own wedding. His eyes were darting everywhere: from the stained glass windows to the bishop's shoes. He made eye contact with Aloysius twice.

A loud noise resounded through the Cathedral. Bethany's mom was obnoxiously blowing her noise in the front row. Her husband, who was at least fifteen years her senior, was standing proudly by her side. Next to them were Aloysius's grandparents and parents. Bethany's mom had said that they could sit in the front row with them, but Aloysius declined, and his siblings followed his example. His siblings sat in the second row because they didn't know their cousin as well as the others in the first row. Aloysius sat in the second row to avoid his parents.

Aloysius pulled at the jacket of his tuxedo. It was too small, but dad insisted he bought a new one for Aloysius instead of him bringing his own. They ended up in a whole argument about it, resulting in Aloysius no longer having a free room in their house for the weekend. Now he had to rent out a hotel room.

He remembered how kind Henry Grant', well, Stephanos Kontos', mother had so kindly remembered her son when he had practically ran away from them. She loved him despite what his refusal to talk to her, refusal to see her. Aloysius looked over to his own mother. Her hands were clasped in front of her and, even from the back, Aloysius could tell she was grinning from ear to ear. In some ways, Aloysius wished it was him up there, facing Elle, whom he had started seeing in the past couple of months. Maybe then his mother have something that he did to smile at.

More memories flooded through Aloysius's brain. Her nickname for Aloysius had been, he hated to admit it, "mon petit sportif" (my little sportsman). He was well aware of how strange and unique it was, but it suited him, at least in his mother's eyes. She loved speaking French, despite being no less American than the corndog, and each of her children suffered from that love. George went from mon chéri to doux soldat, Kathryn was the princesse aimante, and Olivia was belle fille, although she had directly told mom to stop calling her that when she was about sixteen.

Yesterday was the first time in almost four years since he had been called by his mother's nickname. Despite only moving to Chicago two years ago, his parents and him were hardly on speaking level. They gave him a monthly allowance and, in turn, he never spoke bad of them and attended all family events. The Mills were an influencial, socialite family in Pittsburg. What would happen if the public found out one of the patriarchs practically disowned his own son?

As a result of the estrangement, he never got to speak very long to his mother, despite the issue being solely between Aloysius and his father. Phone calls were few and far between and the couple times she dropped off envelopes of cash for him at his uncle's, Aloysius wasn't at home.

Aloysius drove the entire eight hours to Pittsburgh, only stopping to refuel and use the bathroom. When he arrived at his parent's doorstep, he was tired and not in the mood to talk to anyone, especially his father. Thankfully, Mrs. Mills opened the door, followed by Olivia.

"Mon petit sportif," mom mumbled, her eyes scanning Aloysius up and down. He didn't think he had changed at all over the past two years. Maybe he looked different through a mother's lense. She reached up and held Aloysius's cheek in her hand. While she was trying her best to hide it, sadness was painted all over her face. Aloysius smiled down at her while his sister, Olivia, watched the moment unfold. Olivia had always been on dad's side, but she decided to hide her displeasure in Aloysius returning for mom's sake.

"Hi mom," Aloysius said, taking her hand off his cheek, "How is everyone?"

"Fine," she whispered. For the first time in forever, Aloysius imagined what it must have been like for her. A mother without a child, not knowing what he was doing, who he was spending time with, where he went. George was in the military, he left for a reason. Aloysius was the one who got away.

Mom cleared her throat, "How are you?"

"Tired," Aloysius said, "May I stay here tonight?"

"Of course, my dear," she said, opening the door wide enough for him to squeeze in with his suitcases, "Your bedroom is unchanged."

"When mom says 'unchanged' she means unchanged since you moved in with Uncle John when you were fourteen," Olivia said snarkily, "Enjoy your yellow cowboy quilt."

"I plan on it," Aloysius said, smiling at his mom. When he turned around he shot a nasty glare in his sister's direction. She stuck out her tongue in response.

Dad kicked him out the next day, after the party. Every Mills wedding, including his older sister's, was accompanied by a huge wedding paid entirely by his father. It was his gift to each newly-wed, along with a couple hundred dollars. In an attempt to preserve his status and, perhaps, out of the goodness of his heart, to not ruin the party for Bethany, Mr. Mills put off confronting Aloysius until afterwards. Their scuffle about the suit occured and his father insisted he stay at a hotel for the weekend. At least Mr. Mills paid for it.

The ceremony was coming to a close. Bethany Mills because Bethany Quantil (at least in the Church's eyes) and the happy couple began walking down the aisle. The blue, pink, and green light streaming through the stained glass windows illuminated the crowd, giving the moment a mystical feeling. Aloysius couldn't determine why, but how jovial and friendly everyone was lit something within him that had been dead for a long, long time.

He rushed out of the pew, pushing through a surprising amount of people to meet his parents in the front of the Church. Olivia was next to Mr. Mills, and Mrs. Mills next to her.

"What's the rush, Lou?" Olivia asked. Her small baby bump was prominent under her flapper-style dress. Aloysius thought about making a snarky comment about it, but quickly brushed the thought out of his head. Today was not a day for petty insults.

"I wanted to talk to you," Aloysius said, facing dad. Mom got the message and walked away, but not before touching Aloysius's cheek and whispering "mon petit sportif" again. This time, instead of reminded Aloysius in the past, it made him feel more comfortable. He would even go as far as to say he was more hopeful.

After the rest of the family left (Olivia quite begrudgingly), Aloysius faced his dad. They were the only people in front of the Church, now, except for the alter boy extinguishing the candles.

"Is this about your allowance?" Mr. Mills groaned, "Because, if so young man, I-"

Aloysius shook his head, "No, it's not. In fact, you can stop giving me money. I don't need it."

Mr. Mills made no attempt to hide is surprise at Aloysius's statement. His eyes went wide and his mouth hung slightly open. He regained his composure and asked another question with the same rude tone.

"Then what is it, boy?"

"I wanted to let you know that, even if we have our differences, and we have a lot of differences, I would like to settle our little argument once and for all," Aloysius said. The next thing he said was something he had only done in dreams. Raymond would be proud of him. He choked the next words out, "I.. forgive you."

Mr. Mills seemed to contemplate his son's words for a moment. Then, as sudden as Aloysius's desire to reconcile, Mr. Mills pulled his son close and wrapped his arms around him. It was the first time they had hugged in years. A small sniffling sound came from his father and, when they pulled apart, a stain from a tear was left on Mr. Mills' cheek. Neither of them said anything, but a knowing smile passed between them. While the years of arguing weren't gone or meaningless, for once, they were pushed to the side of the father-son relationship.

As Aloysius walked down the empty aisle next to his father, he could only smile to himself. He was back with his family. He was no longer reliant on Raymond and the speakeasy buddies he saw few and far between. He was surrounded by loving family and he was proud of himself. Not in the same way he was proud when they caught Madeleine, but proud like he had solved a problem that had damaged his life for years. A problem that had prevented him from truly living, from truly being happy. But, now, with his dear friends and family at hand, Aloysius Mills was finally at peace.

6,310 words (29,280 total)

Epilogue, Part 2


Afterwards, Caroline didn't spend much more time at speakeasies. She dreamed of the whole, strange ordeal often afterwards, about how it seemed to mean so much and so little at the same time. But, as Caroline had realized, that was life.

There was a part of this whole ordeal that made her realize she'd outgrown the whole thing. She wished she could say that she'd stayed in touch with Sophie, Aloysuis and Julian, but that wasn't the case. It seemed as though, when they no longer had an unsolved crime to bind them together, there was little else for them to discuss. Emma, her one true friend in the city, had met someone else and gotten married that December. They'd hugged tightly the day she moved out of the boarding house, promising to stay in touch, but somehow Caroline had a feeling that that would be the last time they ever spoke.There was a part of her that felt a lingering sadness about that, about the fact that she'd lost contact with her acquitances from the speakeasy when they'd all been through so much together.

But Caroline heard once that people came into and exited your life at the right times. Maybe it was all meant to be this way. Besdies, she'd lived enough by now that she realized that nothing and no one really stuck round for very long, and that seemed to be the cross she was destined to bear. So there was little she could do but look forward, and embrace it.

Anyways, by then, Caroline had come to a very important realization.

While she'd only been Chicago for less than a year, she'd realized that the city wasn't able to offer her what she was seeking. It was the dead of winter when she realized she needed to move, and made the plans to do so. By then, the long, warm nights felt like a distant dream. She'd let her hair grow out in the intervening months, and by the time she packed her bags and left Chicago, it was almost to her shoulders. Not only was it the last year of the 1920s, but Caroline would soon turn twenty years old. Both of those facts made her realize that she needed to look forward, not just to what felt right in the moment but what set her up for long term happiness, if such a thing was truly possible in the insanity of the world.

She quit her job at the textile mill and spent most her spare change on a train ticket to Miami. She wasn't really sure what awaited her there, only that it was warm and she'd be near the beach.

Caroline boarded the train on a cold winter day in February. It had been sleeting and freezing rain all day. As the city skyline disappeared in the horizon, she didn't look back. There was no point. She was looking forward to feeling sand on her feet, and sun on her skin.

As she closed her eyes, she heard the whir of engine bring her to the next chapter of her life.

---

Six months later, the Golden Vanderbilt was still the same as ever. Julian walked in, asked for gas for his silver Packard, and was let in without a complaint. He didn't recognize the man behind the counter, tall and glasses-wearing, but that was to be expected. He hadn't worked here for nearly four months.

A few patrons were scattered about, as was normal. It was oddly silent without a piano playing. Julian turned to the corner where his piano had been, and to his surprise, there was a piano player at the bench; he just appeared to be having a break. Either that, or Doyle had told him to stop playing. Julian smiled, staring at the familiar wood. He felt an urge to go up and play a song for old times' sake, and a pang of bitterness towards the new pianist.

He walked up to the bar, delighting in the spark of recognition in Melvin's eyes.

"Julian," he said. "You haven't visited at all. It's been four months."

Julian grinned. "Has it really been that long?"

"Longer," Melvin said. Julian smiled wider when he realized Melvin was already busy making a South Side cocktail. He handed it to Julian when he was done.

"This one's on the house," he muttered jovially. "Don't tell Doyle. And promise me you'll come back more often. The new guy isn't as nice as you."

"I'll consider," Julian said, smiling. "And thank you."

He wandered through the tables until he found the one he was looking for. The one where he'd first met Aloysius, Caroline, and Sophie. To think, that one night would spur them on this whole adventure. Even though he rarely saw them anymore, he thought about them from time to time.

He raised his glass and pretended to clink it against another. "Cheers," he murmured.

"Well. You look lonely."

Julian nearly spit out his drink when he saw who it was. "Donaldson?"

Sure enough, it was the Detective. He sat down at the table alongside Julian, shrugging off his coat.

"Wouldn't expect to see you here," Julian said.

"Why? Since it's illegal?"

Julian smirked. "No. I only thought that Doyle would have banned you by now."

They shared a laugh. "Mr. Doyle has yet to extend that kindness," Doyle said. "I'm ashamed to admit I've become somewhat of a regular."

"That's uncharacteristic," Julian muttered.

"I can have fun, Mr. Latkowski," Donaldson said.

"Doubtful."

Donaldson smiled. "So. What are you up to these days? Still working here?"

Julian leaned back. "Nope. I was discovered."

"By who? Representatives from Carnegie Hall?"

He laughed. "Not quite. A jazz club owner by the name of Owen Todd. Owns a up-and-coming place about ten blocks from here. He liked my playing well enough and hired me full time."

"I bet Doyle took that well," Donaldson said.

"Eh. Could've gone better, could've gone worse." Julian shrugged. "He'd been anxious to get rid of me ever since the whole Madeleine Grant deal."

"Mm. Makes sense."

"And you?" Julian asked. "What are you up to?"

Donaldson waved away the question. "Still on the force. Same old, same old."

"Aw, you're a cop. I'm sure it's more exciting than that."

"It is. I'm just not allowed to tell you."

Julian laughed, then noticed Donaldson's empty hand. "Do you want a drink? I've got it on good authority the nicer looking bartender's giving away some for free if you tell him you know me."

"I'm a cop. I don't fall for cons."

"Fine then. Use your pretend glass to toast." Julian raised his now empty cup in the air. "To change."

Donaldson grinned. "To clichés."

"To change," Julian reiterated, and touched his glass against the air in Donaldson's palm. After setting his drink down, he got up.

"Leaving?" Donaldson inquired.

"I'm technically not off tonight," Julian confessed. "I just wanted to see this place. Struck with a bout of longing, you know." He turned to go and then thought again, dropping a piece of paper down on the table.

"What's this?" Donaldson looked up at him curiously.

"The address. You should come and hear me play sometime. The acoustics are much better. Plus, I hear I'm a lot better than that guy." Julian stuck a thumb over at the pianist, who was doing a subpar rendition of "Rhapsody in Blue."

"Maybe I will, Mr. Latkowski," Donaldson said. "But only if the drinks are on the house."

Julian laughed. "Of course, Detective." He glanced at his watch. "I really do have to go now. I'll see you."

Donaldson inclined his head in acknowledgement. "See you around."

1,285 words (30,565 total)

Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, had patronized the Golden Vanderbilt over the years. Each one of them had certain quirks, such as the way they talked, the way they walked, and the way they smelled. It was their scents that Hoover remembered. Some were stronger or better smelling than others, but Hoover could recognize them nonetheless.

A couple of scents were once especially pertinent to Hoover. The girl with the paintbrush always smelled of pigments, the strawberry-blonde carried the scent of fresh fabric, Julian permanently smelled the inside of the speakeasy, and the brown-haired regular constantly reeked of like expensive cigars. Despite them being just another group of customers, their scents were always mixed with the memory and smell of alley soot and blood. The memory wasn't clear, but one scent from that day never failed to recall the rest of them. In truth, Hoover was following Grant's scent out the door when he snatched the painter's paint brushes. At the beginning of the day, Grant smelled of nice cologne but, like all employees, the scent of alcohol clung to him by the end of the day. That day in the alley, all smells clashed together, confusing Hoover's senses and distracting him from the event unfolding in front of him. Eventually, strange men in identical uniforms marched onto the scene, the same scent trailing behind each of them.

Hoover hadn't smelled the two women in God knows how long. Whatever happened that day must have scared them away. Or maybe it was Doyle, with his musky scent, who had scared them off. Hoover was often left in the dark in these ordeals.

The ladies' scents had slowly faded away since that one day Madeleine and her flowery perfume left. Scents had come and gone before, but these were special for a reason unknown to Hoover himself. Their scents were hardly noticeable now unless you really sniffed in the corners of the room. The brown-haired man hardly came as much as he used to, probably for the better of his health and sanity. One day, he disappeared as well. Before he and his cigar smoke had left, he mentioned something about a windy city. Perhaps he was there now.

The only smell remaining of the dog's beloved group was that of the piano player. His scent had changed over time, but it never disappeared like the others. As Hoover exited the speakeasy using the same door he had that fateful day, he remembered how the others' scents had slowly faded until it disappeared like every customer eventually did. Their smell was gone and only remained in the people, and dogs, they knew's memory. Their special scents, much like life itself, slowly faded away like dust in the wind.

Another scent caught Hoover's attention. It smelled warm and yeasty like Hoover was in front of a bakery. He peaked over the edge of the dumpster and his eyes immediately found where the smell was coming from. Was that an everything bagel? His thoughts quickly shifted from.. whatever they were just on to the golden-brown ring sitting on top of a trash bag. Today was his lucky day!