Young Writers Society

[The setting is a reasonably sized office in downtown Chicago at some point in the late 20’s, with panelled mahogany walls and similarly coloured furniture. Between two bookshelves, an open safe door can be clearly seen. It is empty apart from one 10 dollar bill. In the middle of the room stands a large, elegant desk. Sat at the desk is a man, slumped over, with a bullet wedged in the back of his head. The murder weapon, a 9 millimetre handgun, lies by his left. Stood by his right, a grave looking figure who is clearly younger than the deceased listens to two police officers asking their final question of an interview. “Did your boss know anyone who might have held a grudge against him?”]

I’ve been to a lot of interesting places in my line of work. Chicago has a special little place in my heart; the women, the drink, the drama. Most importantly the locals. These days, if you aren’t tough, you’re laying in the gutter with an empty wallet and a bullet between your eyeballs. [his eyes drift towards the corpse.] Real hard city. The boss would always send me to meet his clients here in Chicago before he did, kind of a trust thing, or rather lack of. If the guy looked shady I’d tell the boss and business would be cancelled. Of course we came across a lot of shady guys in the slums and dives, but one guy I’ll always remember, we sat in this classy looking cafe with a band of niggers playing the blues in the background, full of dames who had rich, albeit married dates. Anyway, this guy was shadier than anyone I’d seen before; dark eyes, slicked hair, a little Italian moustache. You know, that type. I took a gun out with me the night we discussed business (I’d meet clients at least twice before the boss even left the office), because he was just so God damn shady.

So I’m sitting in this cafe, just about to light up a smoke, and he arrives. Bang on time, too. Wearing a snappy looking tux with a tailcoat and white gloves. I’ll be damned if the man wasn’t of European descent, the way he dressed. He sits, clicks his fingers, and the nearby waiter acknowledges him; disappears into the kitchen. I fiddle with the pistol in my right pocket. He knows this joint, anything could happen from here. He smirks at me, and tells me to lay right off the gun. I’m surprised, and I ask him how he knows. He simply smiles again, and takes a cigar from the breast pocket of his coat. He lights it, takes three short puffs and then a long fourth. Blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, he sets the cigar down in the ashtray. [His voice changes to a lower pitch, as he imitates The Mysterious Stranger.] “When’s the boss gonna trust me enough to do my business, boy? If he’s sending out his God damned courier with a firearm I don’t think he’s quite ready for me to meet him.” I felt that telling him was a bad idea, but he had this bizarre look in his eye. Kind of a -- a twinkle. “I’m not quite sure, Sir. The boss is a careful man.” He laughs, although in a manner that is not at all frightening.

“You mean he’s paranoid. No paranoid man should do business here, especially not paranoid men who trade in what your boss man trades in.”

“I can’t argue with that, Sir, I’m just an employee.” I finally light my cigarette and take a drag. He smiles again.

“Your boss is a slave to appearances. You think I’m shady because I dress like an Italian and happen to have a little moustache, am I correct in assuming this?” He leans forward, props his elbows on the table. I nod, reluctantly. “I’m not offended, boy. I’m simply amused.” He sits back in his chair, picks up his cigar and takes a drag. I took one too, as if I was controlled by his own hands. “If we aren’t gonna talk business, let me tell you a story.” I nodded at him, unable to refuse. For all I knew he had a hand grenade in his back pocket and his pinky looped through the fuse. “Had me a girl, once. We liked each other reasonably, and I enjoyed her company. I’d walk past that coffee shop right over the road every other morning to meet her.” I noticed that when he said coffee, it sounded more like ‘cawfee’, and with that realisation came another – he was in fact a New Yorker. This only increased my fear, of course. New Yorkers are cruel folk. But I digress, I apologise. Let me continue with his story. “One particular morning, as I was about to walk past that coffee shop, I noticed my girl running toward me. Sprinting, in fact. Tears were streaming down her face and her rouge was smudged. I remember her wailing in my arms about ‘the man on the roof’.” He remembered his cigar at this point, and took another drag. I watched his eyes slowly slide shut as he attempted to forget whatever foul memory was embedded in his mind. “The man was one of my friends, as I later found out when I received a letter in the mail the following morning. He was a stockbroker, as many city men are. His letter spoke of a ‘great depression’ that was coming. The money would go, he said. All of it.” I remember searching every inch of his face for a smile. Of course I had heard those two words mentioned, but only behind these great doors you see before you. [he gestures towards the double doors of the office] I know what it means. You know what it means. Surviving on paychecks as you or I do would be out of the question.

Does that mean my mysterious stranger killed the boss? Of course not. [He pauses, and smiles] Of course not. Yeah, officer. I’ve got a pretty good idea of who did it. [He picks up the gun and examines it.] I know who this firearm belongs to. [He stares each officer square in the face, before snatching the gun upwards and shooting them both through the head, between the eyes.] It’s mine.

The Roaring ‘Twenties are over, gentlemen.