Igor, Froderick
02-07-2015, 01:00 AM
Here's a little 1920s Chicago short story. Critiques welcome.
The world will walk all over you if you let it. No one gives a damn about you when you’re not one of their own. Yeah that’s right. If you’re not in that special club—a friend, a cousin, a partner, an associate—you can kiss your neutrality goodbye. In this line of business the wolves don’t just eat you, they bury you so far in their caves no one ain’t ever gonna find your body, nor they gonna break good sense and go snooping for it.
This is Chicago, and that means chill air, fast women and a fever the day after—if you’re careful. But being in my line of work makes for a more unique experience. I’ve pulled the trigger more times than I can count, and that’s just last week.
Me and Bones was making a delivery at a nondescript building on 49th. Well, there was no one to receive the goods. No one living anyway. Some guys came in with a bunch of Tommys and added color to the place.
I bent down to see poor Billy Parks barely breathing. He’d crawled and left a stain trail from the front desk to the phone.
“Who did this Billy?” I said kneeling down. Poor bastard.
“They’re still… heee… still here.”
Something stirred in the back room where the merchandise was kept. The sound of Bones and my pistols clicked louder than I’d wanted.
I led the way and the floorboards of the old, rickety building creaked beneath my new polished shoes. What use would these kicks be if I was dead? Voices filled the back merch room and the oak beneath us groaned once more.
As we got closer, all was quiet.
Gun flash filled the doorway. I jerked aside in reaction and fired two rounds, hearing a curse behind me. Bones was hit.
Luckily a stairway sat to my left and I dodged behind it as the trigger-happy goon let out a few more shots. By now Bones was behind me, bleeding from his arm.
“I’m fine,” he said, his breath heavy.
“Cover me.”
I ran towards the door, firing one of my guns, my confederate poking his gun through the stair railing. A goon poked his head out at the wrong time and I made ‘im pay. As I approached I heard fumbling down the backstairs of the merch room.
“They’re leavin’” I shouted to Bones. He was behind me in seconds as we both entered the half-emptied room.
We followed the clattering down the stairs which led to a last bit of fire escape. A scrawny milksop pebbled a shot my way. These guys had some nerve.
There were two cars in the alley. Bones shot down on one of ‘em, shattering the last window and wounding a goon who dropped a crate of fine distilled whiskey. Pretty soon all were in their cars and takin’ off. We weren’t gonna let ‘em off that easy.
I stopped a civilian dead in his tracks and dethroned him from his ride. Bones takes the passenger’s place. I step on it and before ya know it we’re behind the two getaway cars. They’re trying to pepper us but they can’t shout ****. Bones is much better with his aim.
“I’m low on bullets,” he says.
“Here, take mine.” I hand him my second, non-fired .38.
Before I know it, Bones gets lucky, hits the driver of one, and it plows into a parked car just outside one of those wannabe French cafes. Thing bursts into flames, ruining everyone’s muffins and coffee.
That was one down.
Pretty soon were chasing the remaining getaway lakeside. There’s traffic and now cops behind us—they’re flying bullets our way, hittin’ our trunk and rear window and I don’t want a flat and a visit to the precinct—and I know Capone don’t want it either. So we call it quits for the day and let the other goons scram.
Took us a while to evade the blues, but eventually we got off the grid undetected.
The next day when we was asking around to confirm whom it was that robbed our merch, Bones couldn’t stop talkin’ about the nurse who patched him up.
“I’m tellin’ you this broad was worth it.”
Kinda made me wish I’d been shot. Kinda.
The world will walk all over you if you let it. No one gives a damn about you when you’re not one of their own. Yeah that’s right. If you’re not in that special club—a friend, a cousin, a partner, an associate—you can kiss your neutrality goodbye. In this line of business the wolves don’t just eat you, they bury you so far in their caves no one ain’t ever gonna find your body, nor they gonna break good sense and go snooping for it.
This is Chicago, and that means chill air, fast women and a fever the day after—if you’re careful. But being in my line of work makes for a more unique experience. I’ve pulled the trigger more times than I can count, and that’s just last week.
Me and Bones was making a delivery at a nondescript building on 49th. Well, there was no one to receive the goods. No one living anyway. Some guys came in with a bunch of Tommys and added color to the place.
I bent down to see poor Billy Parks barely breathing. He’d crawled and left a stain trail from the front desk to the phone.
“Who did this Billy?” I said kneeling down. Poor bastard.
“They’re still… heee… still here.”
Something stirred in the back room where the merchandise was kept. The sound of Bones and my pistols clicked louder than I’d wanted.
I led the way and the floorboards of the old, rickety building creaked beneath my new polished shoes. What use would these kicks be if I was dead? Voices filled the back merch room and the oak beneath us groaned once more.
As we got closer, all was quiet.
Gun flash filled the doorway. I jerked aside in reaction and fired two rounds, hearing a curse behind me. Bones was hit.
Luckily a stairway sat to my left and I dodged behind it as the trigger-happy goon let out a few more shots. By now Bones was behind me, bleeding from his arm.
“I’m fine,” he said, his breath heavy.
“Cover me.”
I ran towards the door, firing one of my guns, my confederate poking his gun through the stair railing. A goon poked his head out at the wrong time and I made ‘im pay. As I approached I heard fumbling down the backstairs of the merch room.
“They’re leavin’” I shouted to Bones. He was behind me in seconds as we both entered the half-emptied room.
We followed the clattering down the stairs which led to a last bit of fire escape. A scrawny milksop pebbled a shot my way. These guys had some nerve.
There were two cars in the alley. Bones shot down on one of ‘em, shattering the last window and wounding a goon who dropped a crate of fine distilled whiskey. Pretty soon all were in their cars and takin’ off. We weren’t gonna let ‘em off that easy.
I stopped a civilian dead in his tracks and dethroned him from his ride. Bones takes the passenger’s place. I step on it and before ya know it we’re behind the two getaway cars. They’re trying to pepper us but they can’t shout ****. Bones is much better with his aim.
“I’m low on bullets,” he says.
“Here, take mine.” I hand him my second, non-fired .38.
Before I know it, Bones gets lucky, hits the driver of one, and it plows into a parked car just outside one of those wannabe French cafes. Thing bursts into flames, ruining everyone’s muffins and coffee.
That was one down.
Pretty soon were chasing the remaining getaway lakeside. There’s traffic and now cops behind us—they’re flying bullets our way, hittin’ our trunk and rear window and I don’t want a flat and a visit to the precinct—and I know Capone don’t want it either. So we call it quits for the day and let the other goons scram.
Took us a while to evade the blues, but eventually we got off the grid undetected.
The next day when we was asking around to confirm whom it was that robbed our merch, Bones couldn’t stop talkin’ about the nurse who patched him up.
“I’m tellin’ you this broad was worth it.”
Kinda made me wish I’d been shot. Kinda.