Young Writers Society

The wretched scent of cigar smoke clung to the blue covered padding of car seats, the heavy musk filling my nostrils and refusing to leave despite the open windows. Save for the padding the interior of the car was black, better camouflage for the dark stains – of which there were many. Whisky by the smell, I think, hardly surprising given the owner's line of business. The grey streets of New York City drifted by, indistinguishable at the speed we travelled. I had never been in a car before and honestly found the experience quite novel, if rather uncomfortable. It bumped every few yards and made a booming racket second only to the train. We pass yet another news stand, the words "World Series Fixed!" and “Black Sox Scandal” across every headline.

"I hope they string up whoever did it." Spits Eli, Mr Rothmeyer's driver, with such vehement hate that makes me wonder how big a bet he had placed. Eli's putrid breath was worse than the cigars and whisky combined, but then what was I expecting from a man who drank and smoked constantly and a held a demanding job that left little time for washing, if the wretch ever felt so inclined. Eli pulled a cigarette from his mouth and flicked it out the window, a tobacco scented belch soon following. “Though if I find him first, I'll feed the idiot his own fingers.” Eli flashes me a smile through the rear view mirror, his brown rotten teeth making it the sight of nightmares. Eli was a man of principles, warped ones but principles none the less. Assault, bribery and murder were fine as long as he got paid in the end but messing with baseball was the cardinal sin, a crime beyond any kind of penance. I could not care less about baseball, it was a fascination of the Yanks that never caught my interest.

“So, sonny,” Eli glances back at me again as he pulls another cigarette from his pocket and lit it up, controlling the wheel with his knees. “what's your pop make of all this?”

“He's no’ too happy about it.” I answer unhelpfully, trying not to meet Eli's cold, dead, emotionless eyes. Talking to Eli about my family was hardly my favourite topic of conversation, though it was probably nothing important, the man just wanted to make conversation instead of sitting in silence. I could have expanded on my father's feelings with ease. I still remembered with clarity the look of disapproval on his face when I told him I found a job at a brewery. At first he gave me the talk about how the police would come down hard on us as immigrants if I was caught, then it grew to small comments each time we met, by now it was only silence between us. Screw the old man, I know what he was back home – always coming back late into the night, sporting fresh bruises or cuts every couple weeks or so, taking his razor with him each time he left. I remember all the 'uncles' who came over when I was a boy. Uncle Jamie sticks at the forefront of them all, a tall gaunt man with eyes similar to Eli's and with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. The grin was a memento from a pub fight a year before I first met him, when two boys from south of Gorbals had pinned him down and taken a razor to his cheeks.

I used to envy dad and the uncles when I was a boy. I had wanted what dad possessed before the war, respect and friends loyal to last. But that respect had vanished along with the friends. Most of the uncles, Jamie included, had died in the trenches of Belgium and France, fighting the Hun for King and country as dad would bellow proudly whenever he came back from one of Rothmeyer's bars, reeking like Eli. Now I want what Mr. Rothmeyer has- the money, the fear, the respect that could not be taken, one that would last as long as people still remembered his name. Most of all I want the Rolls Royce parked in front of Mr. Rothmeyer's house, a car of such beauty and elegance that it was unfitting for a wretch like Eli to drive it. But Eli was a crack shot and a devil with his knives and in Mr. Rothmeyer's line of business protection was more important than hygiene.

"We're nearly there." Eli mutters, screwing up his eyes at a policeman as he pulled into a space by the side of road. We sat in silence for close to five minutes, waiting for the blue coated brute to wander off, as Eli tapped a unrecognisable tune onto the wheel. Once the officer, who no doubt was a big a crook as Eli, was safely out of sight the rotten toothed driver turned in his seat to face me, an odd gleam in his eye.

“You know what you need to do?” He asks, reaching into his jacket on the seat next to him. I nod, tapping my foot nervously as I do. “Mickey should be wearing green coat and he looks a bit like a rat.” Eli's pulled something wrapped in a napkin from his jacket. I stared at the outline of the object when Eli offered it to me, it was a pistol, the same kind Eli and the rest of Mr. Rothmeyer's muscle had tucked into their belts. Small, easily hidden, discreet and powerful – the perfect weapon. I unwrapped the pistol and circled my fingers around the handle - snug, fitting, as if it was made for me. I liked the feel of it, the look of it, everything about it. This was a step forwards, a means to becoming like Mr. Rothmeyer. With this I could become feared, respected and rich.

“What'd he do?” I ask, stroking the short barrel with my thumb and checking the bullets.

“What does it matter?” Eli shrugs. “Mr. Rothmeyer wants him dead, so he's dead, he's just not realised it yet.” I stare at Eli, meeting his dead eyes and refusing to blink. Finally he relents. “Mickey has a tendency to cut up the girls at the club after he's paid.” He says, finally a grin creeps up onto his face. “He thinks that no one will come after him because of who his pop is, but we're going to show him the error in that line of thinking.” I smile back, as horrible as it was Mr. Rothmeyer's driver had an infectious grin. Eli pats me on the shoulder.

“Remember, aim for the chest.” I nod and tuck the gun into my belt like I had seen Eli do before. I climb from the car, my legs carrying me almost in a trance past the queues for the food and news stands. I spot Mickey sitting on a bench at the end of the plaza, past a boy selling news papers and a man handing out pamphlets, decrying the evils of communism. He looks as Eli had described – a thick green coat and a particularly rat like face. I feel my hand gripping the pistol, remembering what Mr. Rothmeyer had asked me when Eli had brought me into his house.

“Are you ready?” The thin lipped Kingpin had asked. “To take life and possibly give your own for my organisation?”

“Yes.” I had answered and gladly at that. In one smooth movement I pull the pistol from my belt and level it at Mickey. Someone to my left shouts and Mickey looks up, words forming on his lips as I pull the trigger. A deafening crack rings out and Mickey jumps in his seat, his hands shooting towards his side. He stares at me, confusion in his eyes, my hands begin to shake now – through adrenaline or fear or guilt, I do not know which. Mickey looks as if to speak but no words come out, only a horrible gasping noise, somehow audible above the screams of those nearby. My hand shakes wildly as I pull the trigger for the second time. A small hole, no larger than a small coin appears below his left eye, the gasping his gone. Mickey slides and hits the ground with a thud.

“Boss!” A voice shouts over the din. It belongs to a thickset, brutish looking man shouldering his way through the crowd. I turn and try and run back to Eli, pushing people aside as they gasped over the body. Something hits me in the back, stronger than the hardest punch I'd ever felt. The force of it knocks me forwards, pushing me to one knee. A crack, similar to the one made by pistol echoes out. I try to stand until another crack breaks through the screams. The ground rises to meet me, my legs go numb and my strength vanishes. I tell my hands to push at the ground but they do not obey as the stomping of thick boots make their way towards me. I try to shout for help but no words come, only a simple pain filled cry reaches my lips. I don't want it any more, I don't want to end up like uncle Jamie – scarred and cold. I don't want to end up like Mickey, the horrible wheezing followed by only silence. I'm not ready.