Authors Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The language and attitudes depicted in the story are representative of the time and place it is set in and should in no way be taken as a reflection of the authors views.
I am submitting this story as part of the Crimes and Punishment 2023 story event. Be sure to check out the entries and vote, comments and votes take only a moment but are hugely appreciated by the writers on this site who work so hard to entertain.
Dakota Moonshine
Chapter One:
Sioux Falls, 1926. A small city on the eastern edge of the state of South Dakota. With a population just over twenty-five thousand it seemed bustling by South Dakota standards but was a veritable backwater compared to the city of Chicago with its three hundred thousand inhabitants just five hundred miles away.
There were a number of hotels in the town where a weary traveller or roaming salesman could generally avail of a room for the night. However, on this day, much as it had been in Bethlehem all those years ago, there was a distinct lack of accommodation available. A week earlier a fire had gutted one of the principal hotels. This, coupled with a recent influx of visitors to the city on account of a new feed factory opening its doors for business, had left those remaining hotels all fully booked out.
It was for this reason that the big five-seater Buick Master Six, resplendent in fire engine red, pulled up alongside the kerb opposite The Drop Inn. A homely looking establishment that had been around for over fifty years now, the business had opened its doors in the 1870's as a local bar and restaurant but Congress passing the prohibition act had served to put a severe dent in that enterprise and so the owners had converted the four storied building into a rooming house instead.
Three men spilled out of the back seat and onto the quiet evening street. All of them were groaning and stretching their limbs, cramped and sore from long hours in tight quarters. Not that the back seat of the Buick was small, it was just the designers had never considered fitting three men of those proportions into that particular space, certainly not comfortably. Their muttered curses completed, two of the men jammed Fedora hats onto their heads, sparking up cigarettes soon after. The third man, the biggest among them, pulled on a flat Newsboy styled cap that seemed ridiculous on a head that matched his six-foot five inch frame in size and width.
"What now?" the big man asked of the driver who had remained behind the wheel of the car, his words slurred from an absence of front teeth. Given the scarring evident on his face, the mushed up and distorted lips and nose, he had clearly been no stranger to taking a punch during his life. If those punches had been received in the ring or on the streets, well that was another matter.
The driver rolled the window down, a fresh plume of cigarette smoke wafting from inside the car to slowly disappear in the warm summers air. "Rocko, you lummox. What the hell do you think? Go get us rooms!"
As the chastised Rocko lumbered away the driver called after him, "Make sure I got an ensuite. That's if they got anything like that in this hick town." The big man acknowledged his marching orders with a raised hand, disappearing into The Drop Inn's front door.
The driver then rolled the window back up, opening the car door a moment later. He stepped out and the difference between this newly emerged figure and the three brawny men who had proceeded him was as clear as night against day. Rocko and his two compatriots were dressed smartly but without finery, their suits and hats purchased with an eye towards being hardwearing and functional. The driver on the other hand was clad in a tailor-made suit, grey shot through with a pinstripe. The waistcoat was bedecked with a gold watch chain and his boots looked to be of the Italian leather, the ridiculously expensive kind. He completed his look with a grey Derby hat that he set at an angle on his head, the brim pulled low for a menacing effect. Aside from the distinction in fashion, it was the drivers stick thin, narrow shouldered and diminutive frame that set him apart from the three hulking men who accompanied him.
Mario 'The Lift' Russo worked for a prominent Chicago businessman, one who's business was more often than not on the wrong side of the law. This business man, a certain Frank LaPorte had himself a boss as many men do. His boss was Jimmy Amaratti, a cruel yet successful man in his field at least. He in turn however answered in all things to another, a man whose name even now was the stuff of legend. Al Capone.
Mario had never met Al Capone, had never even been in the same room as him but he carried on with those around him as if his orders were whispered into his ear by the big man himself. He took more pride in his own nickname than Al Capone had ever shown in his 'Scarface' sobriquet. Were he to be asked, he would remark that he had acquired his moniker due to his starting out as a pickpocket on the west side of Chicago. However, if you asked anyone else about the origin, they would likely tell you it was because of the thickened insoles he wore in his shoes to raise himself from five foot two inches, to five foot and three inches.
His vicious temper and mile wide cruel streak kept any sniggering whispers regarding his height well and truly behind his back. As a gangster he was very much middle of the road when it came to success, despite his grandiose clothing and attitude. However, as a toady, boot licking those higher up the food chain than himself, he was a master. He'd managed to persuade his betters that he was ready for increased responsibility and so he now stood on a quiet street in Sioux Falls in charge of this operation.
Mario clicked his fingers irritably and the passenger side of the car opened, a tall woman emerging serenely. To a passerby it was impossible to tell a great deal about the woman save that her body appeared slender with flaring hips and an impressive bosom. Her age and looks were obscured by the wide brimmed hat she wore, tilted forward to shadow her face from view. This tall elegant woman wore a black art deco designed dress with scalloped cap sleeves and mid V neckline. The outfit was as out of place in this mid-west town as was the man irritably beckoning her over.
"When I call you, you come straight away" he hissed as the elegant woman joined him. Her murmured reply was low enough that only he could hear it but whatever she said caused his hands to clench in anger.
"I thought I slapped the smarts outa your mouth last night. Guess youse is too dumb to learn eh? Youse wants me to slap ya round some more?"
Again she replied in hushed tones, this time her words soothing him enough that his fists relaxed and he spat out "Better" by way of response.
Rocko emerged from the inn, two brass keys clutched in his hands. He proffered one to Mario with a "best room they got" tacked on.
The men set to unloading the car of luggage, four small suitcases came out of the spacious trunk of the Buick first. Three were battered and were without doubt the luggage of Rocko and Co. A fourth small case, black leather with a 'M.R.' stencilled in gold letters near the handle could only belong to Mario. This case and one of the other small ones were seized by Rocko, the other men taking a case apiece. Mario carried only a midsized carpet bag that he recovered from the front of the car. Rocko followed his boss as Mario began walking away from the car. One last case lay at the bottom of the car's trunk, twice the size of the other pieces of luggage and the other two men were looking at each other as to which one would recover this last item when the woman standing nearby finally spoke aloud.
"Fer Chriss sakes, I'll do it," and good as her word she lifted the suitcase out, tottering after the men into the inn.
Agnes Madigan had been born on the south side of Chicago in 1904. Blue eyed, red haired and pretty, she had been quick to find work in one of the burlesque clubs that had become dotted around the city as the roaring twenties had taken hold of America and Chicago in particular. Her looks had drawn the attention of a number of men, Mario Russo being the latest. She often thought her late Irish grandmother would have been more ashamed of her taking up with a 'Wop Gangster' than showing off her legs in a burlesque review. This however was the bed she had made for herself and come hell or high water she planned to make the best of it. For Agnes, going back to the Southside and living in a tenement was not an option.
The interior of the Inn was homely and clean, but to Mario it was rundown and old fashioned. He only had to spend the night here but already he could feel his skin crawling at the thought of cotton bedsheets instead of the silk ones he had at his own apartment. He took a quick look around, aside from the old man behind the reception desk and a young coloured male leaning against the wall near the stairs the place seemed empty. Still, he retightened his grip on the bag he carried, his right hand touching the small of his back where the reassuring bulk of his Colt .45 automatic pressed against him.
"Help you sah?" The query made Mario start, his mind elsewhere. He threw the young black man a look that was heavy with menace, his temper flaring at being startled by him.
"Beat it," he spat angrily, his rage palpable and the young man took a step away fearfully. The three men accompanying him began to crowd forward, the anger in their leader's voice causing them to grow anxious.
"You can help me," Agnes's smooth voice settled like silk over the room, the tension draining away from everyone save Mario who was still simmering. The young man gratefully moved over to where Agnes stood and hefted her suitcase up. He followed them up to the second floor keeping as much distance between himself and Mario as possible. When the party had reached their room, he touched his forelock as she tipped him generously, retreating down the stairs as quickly as he could, long legs almost tangling together in his haste.
Mario's mood was improved at the sight of the black male running away. He always took pleasure in the discomfort of others and all the more if the person happened to be taller than himself. Which was a lot of people. He took the larger of the two rooms, Agnes dutifully following him inside. Rocko and the other two men wedging themselves through the narrow door, an audible groan coming from their lips as they espied two narrow cots and a beaten looking sofa that was their resting place for the night ahead.
In the bigger room, Mario quickly walked it out, judging it to be a little under half the size of his own bedroom back in Chicago. Still, it was just for tonight. Agnes unpinned the hat she wore, pulling it free so that her tangle of red wavy hair fell down past her shoulders. She shook it out, hands ruffling through it as she freed sweat dampened locks from where they clung together. Now that the hat was gone, the slight marks on her pale white skin were clear to be seen. A slight puffing to her right cheek showed where a blow had landed even though the light dusting of make-up that she wore hid the discolouring bruise. Her lower lip had a cut on the right side, the flesh beneath it and to one side also swollen ever so slightly. It pulled her mouth up a hairsbreadth so that it added a knowing look to match the intelligent light in her eyes.
