Don't Fear The Keeper (Noir Themed Discussion)

[Jones_Tims]

Barbaria: “Thanks for da heads up Joey boy. Let’s make him wait a bit, okay? He ain’t going anywheres soon. Ya did tie him down on a chair, right? And I have some business to attend to down in da “persuasion room.” And, oh, do me a favor and leave da air ducts open. I want our friend to hear dem stupid three bitches scream, holler and beg forgiveness under da bite of da lash.“

An hour later I made my appearance in the room where he sat bound to a chair. Joey had trussed him up well ... a real professional, my Joey. I had come directly from the girls’ flogging, still wearing only garters, hose and heels, my otherwise naked body sheened with sweat from exertion. Wielding a cat and working over, not one but, three misbehaving and not very bright bitches can be hard work. I switched on the lights, startling and temporarily blinding him, then circled slowly around him, my heels clacking on the concrete floor. After several revolutions, I stopped directly in front of him, leaned forward, dangling my bare boobs right in front of his face, and demanded in ominously hissing tones that he come clean and tell me exactly what his game was.

Every man in East Saint Crux had this one fantasy of having his face rubbed against the breasts of one young, blonde whore, in dark red underwear, while another one is rubbing his Johnson and he's tongue kissing a third one... in the meantime a line of four or five other girls waiting for their turn. I swear to God, if the Bible included a chapter mentioning those broads in the afterlife, every man in Saint Crux would give up his vices, his wrongdoings and his sins and go each sunday morning to the mass.

But to have possibly, the most powerful woman in town, wiggling her breasts in front of you... displaying you her sweaty, half-naked body, and all of that for free? No fool could even dream of such a thing. And yet, there he was... Lieutenant Jones, tired, bored of life, nose deep in bureaucracy and murder cases, not dating anyone or spending any dime on them broads in the last two years... with Barbaria sexually teasing him. He may have done some dumb things in the past (that's what got him caught in the first place), but he knew that he was walking on thin ice. If he shows that he's sexually stimulated, Barbaria would stab him between the legs then slit his throat. If he didn't seem impressed, she would remove his eyes and keep them as a trophy. He went for a compromise: he left a small drop of saliva to fall out of his mouth. He then cleared his lips with his tongue and gulped. He inhaled quite a bunch of air... thinking his next move.

He wasn't sure if Joey Tarantello spilled the beans or not. "God damn you Joey... this is the last time I'm dealing with them Guidos" he thought. Did Barbaria know he's a cop? Now, if there's one thing that gets you sent to the bottom of the ocean quicker than admitting that you're an undercover cop, it's probably fucking with Barbaria and thinking you can fool her when she holds you in her clutches. Admitting he's a copper was the only option. But what then? Barbaria slits his throat and that's the end of the story. If he wanted to outsmart a gangster, he had to act like one. A business proposal... that's how you deal with the Mafia.

Lieutenant T. Jones: "Donna Barbaria... before we get started... I hope you weren't too rough with the broads... they didn't have anything to do with..."

Barbaria giggled in delight, slapping his left cheek, then grabbing him by the chin and spitting him between the eyes.

Lieutenant T. Jones: "Alright... Alright... I deserve this one. You're a tough one, I'll give you that. Ok then... I'm a cop... Yeah... I'm a cop... and I know... you're Donna Barbaria... the head of the Barbaria Family. I know what you're dealing with here... the Blue State... it's a brothel, right? A whorehouse with all kinds of dames. I knew about it for some time. I also knew about that little gambling den, on Crucem Street. And guess what? I didn't spill the beans. You wanna know why? Cause I'm not here to rid this city of the Mafia. Some gambling, some broads... everybody needs that from time to time. Not to mention that, back in the 20s... during the Prohibition... the Mob fixed some drinks for the common man. I had a drink or two at Blue State, when it was just a speakeasy, during your father's rule. Don't think for a second that I consider the Mafia to be my enemy. That's the chief's attitude, not mine.

So... I come to you... with a business proposal... Look... I'm not after you... I'm after this scumbag... The Keeper... serial kidnapper, eight victims. You heard about it, I'm sure you did. They were fine broads. Innocents. This scumbag... is bad for business. How long would it take for this asshole to start stalking one of your girls? The Keeper has a thing for unmarried, young broads. I'm doing my best to prevent him from doing that. You know my policy... money on the table, right? Here's what I have to offer. Those files I have on you at the Precint... supposedly... I would kick the bucket tonight... the coppers will check my desk... and find out all the nasty stuff you're pulling off here and on Crucem Street. Not a nice one, right? But... supposedly... I walk outside of this place and I get back to work... I can make a file or two disappear. It's a good offer. I keep the heat down and turn the coppers away from your...respectable businesses... and you give me a lead, a clue, or anything you may have... anything... even a rumor would be helpful... on the Keeper. What do you say?"

 

[Jones_Tims]

The phone woke Agent Sam Goldman out of a sound sleep, which was probably a good thing since he had been dreaming that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and the US was getting into the war. He knew as only someone well connected in the OSS could how unprepared the country was. But maybe in another year if he and his colleagues hustled their asses.

He picked up the receiver. "Goldman here," he said, curtly.

The naked woman lying beside him stirred. "Who is it Sam?"

He listened for a moment, then mouthed, "It's the Chief. From DC."

"Donovan?" she whispered. He nodded.

"Isn't that a matter for the cops?" he spoke into the phone. "Uhh-huh, OK," he said a few moments later. "Alright, we'll check it out." he hung up the phone.

"What's going on. Goldman?" she asked.

"Better get some clothes on, Moore." That was an unusual request for Sam; usually he was asking Barb to take her clothes off. "We got work to do. There's eight women gone missing and Donovan wants us to get in touch with the NYPD and check it out. Could be Nazi spies involved."

"Oh, for chrissakes, Goldman, this is probably some lunatic loner in a basement in Queens."

"For a change, you're probably right, Moore, but just in case, he wants us to have a looksee. So get that tight little into the shower. I'll join you in a sec." Sam watched a Barb stood and made her way to the bathroom. That tight little was a sight to see...

(out of my usual characters): Hey, nice scene you have there! Loved it! Just so you know... the story is supposedly set in the fictional city of Saint Crux. Now of course, New York and any other American city is still existing in this universe, so it doesn't contradict the story directly. Also, Barbaria1 is playing the role of a Mafia boss, but then of course, as I said... anyone can play as many characters as they want to, as long as they specify which is which.

 

[malins]

I'm out and about tonight. Iridescent shimmering blue silk gown, pearl necklace and opal brooch, but sensible flat shoes till I get there ... and everything hidden under a long felt coat till I make my appearance.

The place I get dropped off today, it's a good way into the seedier parts of town.
But here's where the new artistes are showing their stuff that the Good People will be reading about in their sunday paper columns a few years from now.
Call it a vernissage if you like. Art of a different kind.

Lots of new people, many fresh out of Europe.
So lots of talk about politics that I try not to care about though I'm afraid it's going to catch up with us.
I know Chaplin has his film in the can, about the dictator - set to start in the theaters next month.
That is probably going to get the ball rolling.

Me I don't know. I was born a year after Dad came home from the War and I only remember him as being far off and unapproachable. But Mom told me he'd been different before going off to the trenches ... she'd married a different man than the one who came back. So I don't know about war but it's not going to be me deciding, I haven't even voted.

Anyway the world has surely changed for the worst, just last year Sir Frederick was still taking me on trips, dancing and dining first class on ocean liners, flying with a Clipper ... I still wonder about his last letter and him vanishing like that.

I browse the exhibt, here's some work by Carl August Vroedelbold, hounded out of Germany by the Nazis for doing degenerate art.
As a secret smut writer I'm not going to say what's degenerate or not.
I'll just say the series going from elegant dancing to contorted bodies gives me an idea.
Like a rich artist who hires models and trains them to do all sort of depraved things before selling them off to ... I'll think of something. I file it away in my twisted brain under the working title "Beatification of Brutality".

I've been peering intently on Vroedelbold's tryptichon of depravity when I notice I'm being watched.
I turn to my right and see some creepy shadow slip away ...

... but then from the left there's a gruff voice "You like these, Maureen? I think I can show you something else ... I'm sure you'll like..."
(Maureen is the name I go by here, you must know.)

It's Stanley Grocely!
Kind of a personal nemesis.
A split second before I figure out what's going and slip away ...
he's already maneuvered me against the wall and starts groping me!!

He's actually an inch or two shorter than me but a bull of a man, built like a steamroller, he's got both my wrists in one of his paws pinning them right above my head and he's trying to shove the other one up under my dress. Disgusting breath and badly shaved skin against me as he tries to force a kiss and I twist my face away. I'm squirming but I'm not quite sure I want to scream yet. The bastard grinds his pelvis into me ...

"Hmm you don't like this!?!" he asks appearing genuinely suprised, the dolt.
I might if it were someone else!!! Get off me!!

It speaks in his favor that at last he gets the message and backs off. I get the feeling creepy shadow guy was watching ...
I look down at myself ... let's hope the bastard hasn't ruined my dress. It cost the pay for an entire series of "Irphan the Impious Impaler"!

Stanley picks up a glass from a tray nearby and pours wine, expensive French stuff I couldn't pronounce.
It's one of those really big bulbous glasses that's supposed to capture the scent, the dolt of course fills it up waaay to far.

"Perhaps the lady will accept a nice drink on my expense?" he croons with a slimy false voice.

I slap the glass out of his hand.

Or that is what I intended to do.
His grasp is firmer and my slap harder than expected so the glass just breaks, lacerating my palm and sending shards and wine all other. There's gasps as people step back to avoid getting spattered. Stanley sure is spattered.

I look at my hand ... nothing much to worry about, looks worse than it is, a little blood goes a long way in terms of coloring you know.
Everone is sort of standing open mouthed, waiting what happens next.
And so I take the initiative, swinging my injured hand in a wide arc ... adding spatters of real blood across wine-drenched Stanley, assorted bystanders, and the torture canvas of Vroedelbold's work. (Later I learn that the blood added hugely to its value).

I let my hands fall to my side and feel someone behind or beside me pass me a cloth or handkerchief to my left, and instinctively grab it.

Now some silly lady starts screaming, someone drops a glass, and everyone backs away further, people stumble over stuff or each other and I have a perfect opening to bolt. Some guy stands in my way going "Excuse me dear lady you can't just..." but I give him a light shove in the chest, leaving him behind with a bloody handprint on his bright white shirt. More screaming happens and I'm out of the joint.

Mind you this incident will not hurt my reputation at all quite to the contrary. Making a scene every now and then only adds to my mystique.

Anyway this isn't a place where there'll be a taxi waiting ...
so off with the fancy shoes.
My coat and my handbag are still inside and so are my flats so I'm off barefoot.
I wind the handkerchief that some Mr. Helpful passed me around my injured hand and run for it.

Still shivering ... more with rage than fear ... I stop out of breath a few blocks later.

I'm in what you could call ... Barbarian territory. There's a nightclub here I know though and in I go. Blue something or other.

Up at the bar everyone sort of parts like the Red Sea and lets me through ... a lady like me in disheveled state with heaving chest is something they like to watch I guess.

All I say is "I need a drink" and I guess they know what I mean.

I unwind the handkerchief from my cut hand.

My hand is going to be OK, but that handkerchief ...
It looks quite ... strange,
and I realize
I have no idea who it was,
that handed it to me ...

 

[windar]

(out of my usual characters): Hey, nice scene you have there! Loved it! Just so you know... the story is supposedly set in the fictional city of Saint Crux. Now of course, New York and any other American city is still existing in this universe, so it doesn't contradict the story directly. Also, Barbaria1 is playing the role of a Mafia boss, but then of course, as I said... anyone can play as many characters as they want to, as long as they specify which is which.

The characters of Goldman and Moore are stock characters here. You can read about their many adventures in numerous stories. Barb plays many roles here on both sides of the law...

 

[Jones_Tims]

The characters of Goldman and Moore are stock characters here. You can read about their many adventures in numerous stories. Barb plays many roles here on both sides of the law...

Will definitely check them one day. Thanks for the heads up!

 

[windar]

Will definitely check them one day. Thanks for the heads up!

This particular incarnation of OSS agents is from a story Barb and I did about a year ago. It wasn't too bad, I think.
https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/last-liaison-in-lyon.7609/

 

[Jones_Tims]

I'm out and about tonight. Iridescent shimmering blue silk gown, pearl necklace and opal brooch, but sensible flat shoes till I get there ... and everything hidden under a long felt coat till I make my appearance.

The place I get dropped of today, is a good way into the seedier parts of town but here's where the new artistes are showing their stuff that the Good People will be reading about in their sunday paper columns a few years from now.
Call it a vernissage if you like. Art of a different kind.

Lots of new people, many fresh out of Europe.
So lots of talk about politics that I try not to care about though I'm afraid it's going to catch up with us. I know Chaplin has his film in the can, about the dictator - set to start in the theaters next month. That is probably going to get the ball rolling.

Me I don't know. I was born a year after Dad came home from the War and I only remember him as being far off and unapproachable. But Mom told me he'd been different before going off to the trenches ... she'd married a different man than the one who came back. So I don't know about war but it's not going to be me deciding, I haven't even voted.

Anyway the world has surely changed for the worst, just last year Sir Frederick was still taking me on trips, dancing and dining first class on ocean liners, flying with a Clipper ... I still wonder about his last letter and him vanishing like that.

I browse the exhibt, here's some work by Carl August Vroedelbold, hounded out of Germany by the Nazis for doing degenerate art. As a secret smut writer I'm not going to say what's degenerate or not. I'll just say the series going from elegant dancing to contorted bodies gives me an idea. Like a rich artist who hires models and trains them to do all sort of depraved things before selling them off to ... I'll think of something. I file it away in my twisted brain under the working title "Beatification of Brutality".

I've been peering intently on Vroedelbold's tryptichon of depravity when I notice I'm being watched. I turn to my right and see some creepy shadow slip away ...

... but then from the left there's a gruff voice "You like these, Maureen? I think I can show you something else ... I'm sure you'll like..."
(Maureen is the name I go by here, you must know.)

It's Stanley Grocely! Kind of a personal nemesis.
A split second before I figure out what's going and slip away ...
he's already maneuvered me against the wall and starts groping me!!
He's actually an inch or two shorter than me but a bull of a man, built like a steamroller, he's got both my wrists in one of his paws pinning them right above my head and he's trying to shove the other one up under my dress. Disgusting breath and badly shaved skin against me as he tries to force a kiss and I twist my face away. I'm squirming but I'm not quite sure I want to scream yet. The bastard grinds his pelvis into me ...

"Hmm you don't like this!?!" he asks appearing genuinely suprised, the dolt.
I might if it were someone else!!! Get off me!!

It speaks in his favor that at last he gets the message and backs off. I get the feeling creepy shadow guy was watching ...
I look down at myself ... let's hope the bastard hasn't ruined my dress. It cost the pay for an entire series of "Irphan the Impious Impaler"!

Stanley picks up a glass from a tray nearby and pours wine, expensive French stuff I couldn't pronounce.
It's one of those really big bulbous glasses that's supposed to capture the scent, the dolt of course fills it up waaay to far.

"Perhaps the lady will accept a nice drink on my expense?" he croons with a slimy false voice.

I slap the glass out of his hand.

Or that is what I intended to do.
His grasp is firmer and my slap harder than expected so the glass just breaks, lacerating my palm and sending shards and wine all other. There's gasps as people step back to avoid getting spattered. Stanley sure is spattered.

I look at my hand ... nothing much to worry about, looks worse than it is, a little blood goes a long way in terms of coloring you know. Everone is sort of standing open mouthed waiting what happens next and so I take the initiative, swinging my injured hand in a wide arc ... adding spatters of real blood across wine-drenched Stanley, assorted bystanders, and the torture canvas of Vroedelbold's work. (Later I learn that the blood added hugely to its value).

I let my hands fall to my side and feel someone behind or beside me pass me a cloth or handkerchief to my left, and instinctively grab it.

Now some silly lady starts screaming, someone drops a glass, and everyone backs away further, people stumble over stuff or each other and I have a perfect opening to bolt. Some guy stands in my way going "Excuse me dear lady you can't just..." but I give him a light shove in the chest, leaving him behind with a bloody handprint on his bright white shirt. More screaming happens and I'm out of the joint.

Mind you this incident will not hurt my reputation at all quite to the contrary. Making a scene every now and then only adds to my mystique.

Anyway this isn't a place where there'll be a taxi waiting ... so off with the fancy shoes. My coat and my handbag are still inside and so are my flats so I'm off barefoot. I wind the handkerchief that some Mr. Helpful passed me around my injured hand and run for it.

Still shivering ... more with rage than fear ... I stop out of breath a few blocks later.

I'm in what you could call ... Barbarian territory. There's a nightclub here I know though and in I go. Blue something.

Up at the bar everyone sort of lets me through ... a lady like me in disheveled state with heaving chest is something they like to watch I guess.

All I say is "I need a drink" and I guess they know what I mean.

I unwind the handkerchief from my cut hand.

My hand is going to be OK, but that handkerchief ...
It looks quite ... strange,
and I realize
I have no idea who it was,
that handed it to me ...

"Long time, no see, ragazza!", said Joey Tarantello, ironically.

Maureen wasn't surprised. Wherever you see a hotspot of Mob activity and you smell that air filled with perfume, cigarettes and booze, Joey Tarantello is nearby. He wasn't as cold as yesterday, though. It's almost as if he was back in high school, dating the love of his life for the first time. What a weird guy, this Tarantello. He continued:

"Nice to see you around here. The club is kinda... boring and monotone these days... you know what I mean? Would do well with the hand of an artist... I mean sure, we have the usual singers now and then... We even had Peggy Lee hanging around for two nights, could you imagine? But... maybe we need somebody... a little different... uhm... a writer... or a poet maybe? Some indoor decorations would fit nicely... or maybe... an exhibit... Quite a few rich folks are hanging around here... and I'm sure they'd appreciate some art..."

He paused for a moment... seemingly distracted. He looked down... then continued:

"Excuse me, ragazza. Where are my manners, right? Have a drink... anything you want. It's on the house! Although, I'd recomment The Green Dragon Cocktail. It's some fancy, modern one. Tucci saw me drinking one last night and asked me: Tu vuo fa l'Americano? (You want to play the American?). Tucci... that old bastard."

He paused again. His eyes were pointed down once more. This time, he looked rather concerned.

"Hey... what happened to your hand? You want some rubbing alcohol? I'm sure we have some in the back."

(Quicknote: Firstly, your mention of "The Great Dictator" film was just brilliant. Secondly, yeah, I know that Tu vuo fa l'Americano appeared in 1956, I just couldn't resist inserting it here).

 

[Barbaria1]

So, he’s a copper, eh? Might have known. He did have that look about him, and I should have known by his shoes. Why do undercover coppers always wear their regulation shoes? Doesn’t make any sense, does it, to give themselves away like that,

But what he proposes has my interest ... a sweet deal ... an alliance of sorts between him, a copper, and the Barbaria Organization (sounds so much better than the Barbaria Mob, don’t you think?). Object: to rid the city of a menace ... a menace to my business interests and to the city. And in exchange, I get a free pass to conduct business as usual without copper interference. I’ll have to ponder this a while.

“So, you’re a copper,” I said dropping my lower class accent (I earned a graduate degree back when father sent me off to Uni). I think we might be able to do business, but no hurry. I never rush into things.”

At which point I smothered his face with my boobs while reaching down to stroke the hard rod I could see bulging under the front of his trousers. I think he was startled at first, but recovered fast ... licking and teasing my nipples with his tongue. Nice.

I was thinking about what to do next. This was moving along fast, when the door opened and Joey burst in to blurt out that I was needed upstairs. Apparently a woman had entered our joint with a bloody hand and looking quite distraught. She was well dressed, not the kind of female patron we would normally see, although Joey indicated that he knew her.

I let the copper have a couple last licks and a hard suck, let go of his pulsing rod, and with a sigh told him I’d be back and that he shouldn’t go anywhere... not that he could as I left him still trussed up on that chair.

 

[Jones_Tims]

So, he’s a copper, eh? Might have known. He did have that look about him, and I should have known by his shoes. Why do undercover coppers always wear their regulation shoes. Doesn’t make any sense does it to give themselves away like that,

But what he proposes has my interest ... a sweet deal ... an alliance of sorts between him, a copper, and the Barbaria Organization (sounds so much better than the Barbaria Mob, don’t you think?). Object to rid the city of a menace ... a menace to my business interests and to the city. And in exchange, I get a free pass to conduct business as usual without copper interference. I’ll have to ponder this a while.

“So, you’re a copper,” I said dropping my lower class accent (I earned a graduate degree back when father sent me off to Uni). I think we might be able to do business, but no hurry. I never rush into things.”

At which point I smothered his face with my boobs while reaching down to stroke the hard rod I could see bulging under the front of his trousers. I think he was startled at first, but recovered fast ... licking and teasing my nipples with his tongue. Nice.

I was thinking about what to do next. This was moving along fast, when the door opened and Joey burst in to blurt out that I was needed upstairs. Apparently a woman had entered our joint with a bloody hand and looking quite distraught. She was well dressed, not the kind of female patron we would normally see, although Joey indicated that he knew her.

I let the copper have a couple last licks and a hard suck, let go of his pulsing rod, and with a sigh told him I’d be back and that he shouldn’t go anywhere... not that he could as I left him still trussed up on that chair.

Jones was all alone in that dark, musty basement. He knew what he had to do to set himself free. They teach you how to remove cuffs and ropes from around your wrists in the first year at the academy. However, nobody will teach you at the academy that, breaking a deal with the Mafia is digging your own grave. He made a promise to Barbaria. He was sinking in warm water, but he had to keep his head cool. Donna Barbaria trusted him. For his interests, that was way more important than having the support of the chief. Half of his colleagues were incompetent, lazy pricks, already dreaming of retirement and patrolling the streets, only hoping for some fat bribes. He wasn't after the money. Screw the money. It was a search for glory that was driving him... that was keeping him awake all those nights. He caught a bunch of scumbags in his early days on the beat... even shot a few perps. But this one was his fortunate door... a serial kidnapper. Getting this scumbag caught might get him promoted to captain. He was dreaming of that commissioner seat at Precint 1, Downtown. However, that was some provision for his late years... his early 50s maybe. There was still a lot of mud to crawl through until he got there. For now... he waited for Barbaria, to hear her response to his... business proposal. While waiting in complete silence, he giggled at the thought that... he was the only cop in town that literally went "in bed" with the Mafia.

Meanwhile, Joey Tarantello poured some rubbing alcohol on the bleeding hand of the poor gal. Old Tucci had her wrapped up with some bandages. While the old man was tending to her wounds, Joey gave Barbaria the scoop on the girl:

"Boss... listen. This ragazza... I found out last week... that she's a writer. She usually publishes anonimously... using a... how the fuck do they call it... a.... that's the one... a pseudonym. The thing is... the big wigs in the higher elite... they have a thing for this unconventional literature... they would pay big bucks. You see where I'm going with this, right?"

 

[Barbaria1]

By the time I had dressed and appeared on the scene upstairs Joey had things under control. I had gotten myself worked up teasing that copper with my bare boobs in his face and needed to calm myself down first, which took a little time. If Joey hadn’t appeared, I suspect I would have opened that copper’s trousers, straddled him and mounted myself on his throbbing dick and given myself a nice little orgasm. Well, perhaps another time.

But Joey now had a money proposition he was eager to tell me about. I was all ears.

 

[Jones_Tims]

By the time I had dressed and appeared on the scene upstairs Joey had things under control. I had gotten myself worked up teasing that copper with my bare boobs in his face and needed to calm myself down first, which took a little time. If Joey hadn’t appeared, I suspect I would have opened that copper’s trousers, straddled him and mounted myself on his throbbing dick and given myself a nice little orgasm. Well, perhaps another time.

But Joey now had a money proposition he was eager to tell me about. I was all ears.

So... as I said... this ragazza knows her stuff... she has that... you know what... the... unconventional. None of the cliches you often see these days. She has the high quality stuff. So... I've been thinking... any rich prick who wants to compensate for his small weiner... goes to an expensive art gallery, or writers' guild... buys himself some expensive pieces of art then invites all his friends (and their wives, what would be the point otherwise) to show off... It's full-proof. Now, paintings and jewels are of course, way more expensive... but literature... it's not as big in moolah, but unlike them paintings and jewels... it's not a one-time sale. You present the painting, the prick buys the painting, bada-bing bada-boom, business is done. That's it. However... selling literature... that's another animal. It grants us constant profits... for a long while. You know, our associate... what was his name... Fuck it, I can't remember, but you surely know his name... the one with the magazine... yeah... maybe... we could... slip some stories in there... granting us some extra money. Them folks these days aren't content anymore with those fake love stories they publish in the magazine. They want some real literature. So, we bring him the stories... he gets his extra customers, we get more moolah, this gal over here gets some extra moolah... God damn, I saw where she was living and she needs some serious moolah. What do you say about that?

 

[malins]

"Long time, no see, ragazza!", said Joey Tarantello, ironically.

Ah!
I relax, someone I know.

And Joey's wearing a different face than yesterday.
Just like I am.

People consider him a dangerous man, but well, I know where his claws are ...
for now, they're all withdrawn.

Trying to chat me up a bit, alright, I'm always up for flirting with him.

Maybe one day I'll be depending on someone like him to save my life or something ...
and if I get him to where he expects a reward for it, he just might do that.
If you want to call me cold it's an investment in the future ... but it's also fun.

I like cultured and dominant men like Sir Frederick all acting superior and teaching me the ways of the world ... but I like the rough ones like Joey too. He just needs to take me a bit less seriously...

It might seem that I'm out of place or even in danger here but right now I feel safer than back at the art club not to mention out on the street.

With these men, my obvious vulnerability is almost like an armor.
So long as I play my role right.

Joey wants to buy me a drink but Luigi already shoved one over.
A tumbler with a very unladylike helping of something that has a sharp, peaty, medicinal aroma.
Just right for me now.
I take a sip, my eyes water a little.
I'm slightly exaggerating my affectation of coughing but let's uphold the impression that I've never touched hard liquor before.
Well I'll have to accept Joey's drink too. That might be a challenge!

I coyly cover my cough with the handkerchief someone gave me at the art club.
I guess it's mine now.
An unfamiliar pattern on it, hmm but yes, sort of fits with my stola.
I'll ... keep it.

"Hey... what happened to your hand?"

Oh that, I've hardly been feeling it. He takes my hand and pours the rubbing alcohol over it.
I grimace. He's hurting me to help me, I think he enjoys that a lot. Wiping blood off me.
It's an intimacy and he's probably going to make something of it later on, in his dreams.
Oh and while he's looking down I guess that's when he notices I'm barefoot...

"I was just too tense Joey you know."
"This", I say, smacking the tumbler on the countertop, "is a proper glass, you see",
"Over there they have those fancy thin wine glasses you can hardly look at and they break."
"That's what happened, I broke the damn glass right in my hand. Sometimes I'm a bit clumsy, you now... nobody attacked me or anything."
"Thanks"

He hands me off to the tender care of old Tucci and I overhear him talking about ... of all things ... writing and big bucks.

Now that is a bit stupid.
Well sure I can get some money from my smut but it's always precarious.
And I'm milking it for what it's worth.
Nothing much more to be had there.
Nothing the mob would ever care for.
It's picking up pennies in front of a steamroller really.
It's just about enough for one girl to buy some fancy shoes.

Now ... if you have a script MGM desperately wants ... there's bucks in it .... but that's not a matter of what you do or how good you are.
There's a million good writers out there trying.
It's a matter of whom you know, ... whose dick you're willing to suck, ... and then on top of that pure luck ...

There's only one thing they can possibly mean.

And I really thought no one knew about that except my clients.

That would be the fake letters, the fake diaries, and all that ...
... carefully crafted to make very certain people more willing to agree to very certain things.
If it works ... sometimes someone will pay big money for it...

 

[malins]

By the time I realize I ought to be getting out of this "Blue" club and get homeward bound ... it's already dawn!

I have no idea where the time went!
(or maybe I don't want to say, OK? A girl like me wants a liitle bit of discretion...)

But as I want to leave it hits me ...
... where's my coat ... my handbag, my purse ... my sensible flats ... and my plainly ladylike and demure daytime hat?
... all of my camouflage lost!
it's still over in the artiste club I barreled out of after spraying Grocely with wine ... and blood!

I ought to have my pair of fancy heels but I came in barefoot, dangling them from my left hand ... must have put them down somewhere no idea where they've gotten to.

All I have is ... my shimmering nothing of a dress, my stola, ...
... and a strangely patterned handkerchief.

Now I'm prepared for incidents and so I have an extra key hidden away where no one can find it ...
getting into my mousehole of an apartment won't be a problem.
Also I'm certain if I asked him nicely Joey would have that door open in a few seconds, locked or not.

There are enough guys here who'd offer to drop me off ...
but as much as possible I want to avoid being seen in the company of 'that kind of people' when I come home.
My two lives need to remain separate.
I'd prefer to go home by myself.
Buit seriously I can't do that barefoot and in this dress!

Girls will help each other out though, and there's enough here who face a similar challenge, ... wallflower by day, hothouse flower by night.
So I scrounge together some things to make my way home, not perfect fits as almost all of the girls are shorter than me , but way better than nothing...

--

I'm not long on my way before I get the impression I'm being followed.

Again and again I turn round ... always there's someone ducking away or dashing behind some cover.
Suspicious!

Scary. If this was just a story it would be goosebumps and a pleasant shiver running down the spine but right now I'm terrified!
Someone is out to get me!

My pace picks up, I'm weaving through the throngs of good and honest people getting to their proper paycheck work.

I keep turning round nervously to see if there's a trace of my shadowy pursuer ...
suddenly I barrel into a dense crowd and there's no getting through.

Something political, seems to do with that new thing that just got started, 'America First Committee'. Now as I said I'm not so sure about getting into the war but if there's one thing that's sure to make me reject someone's opinion, that's them trying to shove it down my throat. Sir Frederick used to tease me by saying I actually have no opinions at all, all I ever do is just argue against anyone who's got a strong one of their own. Maybe that's true but I'm in no mood for arguing with these guys or signing up with them, ... I want to get home!!! ... and get away from that eerie feeling of being tracked by some unseen predator.

But he's caught up with me and sometimes there's no place where you're more alone than right in the middle of a crowd.

I feel a strong hand covering my mouth.

"Let go of me! Help! Murder! Kidnapping!" I cry ...​

or rather that's what I wanted but what comes out is just

mm MPF m pmmf! hmpmpf! mmpfmmp! rrrrrrkkk!!!​

Then another hand closes round my throat, I struggle in panic but it's just seconds and then my joints are jelly and everything turns dark.

--

It was probably just seconds and then I regain some amount of consciousness.
My eyes are open but somehow I can't see.
I hear the voices from faraway and they sound like underwater.
Can't move. Can't make a sound.

"The poor girl has fainted! And struck her head on the curb! She's bleeding! Can someone get a doctor?" ​

"Oh that girl just had a bit too much fun tonight, she'll be fine"​

"No, this could be serious. I'll take her to the hospital and have them look at her".​

Somehow I know that the last voice, that's the guy who attacked me ...
and he's going to pull off the perfect crime, dragging me into his car in broad daylight ...
all he has to do is pretend to be helpful.

My borrowed shoes come off as he drags me over the pavement to his car and in my mind I see the headline.

"Mystery girl found dismembered"​

... it had to happen someday...

 

[Jones_Tims]

By the time I realize I ought to be getting out of this "Blue" club and get homeward bound ... it's already dawn!

I have no idea where the time went!
(or maybe I don't want to say, OK? A girl like me wants a liitle bit of discretion...)

But as I want to leave it hits me ...
... where's my coat ... my handbag, my purse ... my sensible flats ... and my plainly ladylike and demure daytime hat?
... all of my camouflage lost!
it's still over in the artiste club I barreled out of after spraying Grocely with wine ... and blood!

I ought to have my pair of fancy heels but I came in barefoot, dangling them from my left hand ... must have put them down somewhere no idea where they've gotten to.

All I have is ... my shimmering nothing of a dress, my stola, ...
... and a strangely patterned handkerchief.

Now I'm prepared for incidents and so I have an extra key hidden away where no one can find it ...
getting into my mousehole of an apartment won't be a problem.
Also I'm certain if I asked him nicely Joey would have that door open in a few seconds, locked or not.

There are enough guys here who'd offer to drop me off ...
but as much as possible I want to avoid being seen in the company of 'that kind of people' when I come home.
My two lives need to remain separate.
I'd prefer to go home by myself.
Buit seriously I can't do that barefoot and in this dress!

Girls will help each other out though, and there's enough here who face a similar challenge, ... wallflower by day, hothouse flower by night.
So I scrounge together some things to make my way home, not perfect fits as almost all of the girls are shorter than me , but way better than nothing...

--

I'm not long on my way before I get the impression I'm being followed.

Again and again I turn round ... always there's someone ducking away or dashing behind some cover.
Suspicious!

Scary. If this was just a story it would be goosebumps and a pleasant shiver running down the spine but right now I'm terrified!
Someone is out to get me!

My pace picks up, I'm weaving through the throngs of good and honest people getting to their proper paycheck work.

I keep turning round nervously to see if there's a trace of my shadowy pursuer ...
suddenly I barrel into a dense crowd and there's no getting through.

Something political, seems to do with that new thing that just got started, 'America First Committee'. Now as I said I'm not so sure about getting into the war but if there's one thing that's sure to make me reject someone's opinion, that's them trying to shove it down my throat. Sir Frederick used to tease me by saying I actually have no opinions at all, all I ever do is just argue against anyone who's got a strong one of their own. Maybe that's true but I'm in no mood for arguing with these guys or signing up with them, ... I want to get home!!! ... and get away from that eerie feeling of being tracked by some unseen predator.

But he's caught up with me and sometimes there's no place where you're more alone than right in the middle of a crowd.

I feel a strong hand covering my mouth.

"Let go of me! Help! Murder! Kidnapping!" I cry ...​

or rather that's what I wanted but what comes out is just

mm MPF m pmmf! hmpmpf! mmpfmmp! rrrrrrkkk!!!​

Then another hand closes round my throat, I struggle in panic but it's just seconds and then my joints are jelly and everything turns dark.

--

It was probably just seconds and then I regain some amount of consciousness.
My eyes are open but somehow I can't see.
I hear the voices from faraway and they sound like underwater.
Can't move. Can't make a sound.

"The poor girl has fainted! And struck her head on the curb! She's bleeding! Can someone get a doctor?" ​

"Oh that girl just had a bit too much fun tonight, she'll be fine"​

"No, this could be serious. I'll take her to the hospital and have them look at her".​

Somehow I know that the last voice, that's the guy who attacked me ...
and he's going to pull off the perfect crime, dragging me into his car in broad daylight ...
all he has to do is pretend to be helpful.

My borrowed shoes come off as he drags me over the pavement to his car and in my mind I see the headline.

"Mystery girl found dismembered"​

... it had to happen someday...

September 1940. Blue State Club

Lieutenant Jones woke up in the dark basement, unaware of all the commotion that happened last night. His wrists were hurting like hell, tight ropes holding them together, almost cutting through them. He was still on the seat in hell. It was pitch dark, so he wasn't even sure what time it is. How long since he was brought down there? A few hours? A day? Did he spend the whole night in the basement? The same questions as before... however, this time, he didn't even know the date anymore... He had that deja vu... that all of this... already happened... waking up in a dark room with his legs completely numb and his head hurting like hell. He remembered the conversation with Donna Barbaria... was it even real, or just a mere fantasy made up by his mind before he drifted out of consciousness? He was a lonely man... has been for more than two years... after spending so much time away from them broads, your mind would run wild from time to time.

Assuming they actually talked, did Barbaria accept his offer? Did she forget about him? Or maybe... they never had the conversation in the first place, and Barbaria is planning to murder him... the whole conversation last night being just his mind, trying to console him before his unavoidable early death. He could only think of one thing: "God damn you, Joey!"

In the meantime, upstairs, Joey woke up, his head hurting like hell and constantly feeling like he's about to throw up. Turns out, he fell asleep at the bar. He looked to his left and noticed some Italian bloke and his wife, having a chit chat, sitting on two stools next to him. He looked to his right, and he saw an empty stool. He remembered messing up Lieutenant Jones in the basement last night... then he brought him to Donna Barbaria, for a little talk... what did they even talk about... does it matter right now? Then it hit him... the girl. Where was she? He introduced her to Donna Barbaria... with a business proposition... and then... and then what? He checked for her upstairs but, she wasn't anywhere to be found. Dizzy, still feeling the effects of the hangover, he started going from table to table, asking the people if they saw this broad... her hand wrapped up in bandages... no shoes... fancy hat... any detail he could remember on the run. Nothing. None of them knew what he was talking about. Those weren't the same people. They were new patrons... all the clients from last night already left.

He had to know what's going on. If she was fine, she could only be home. He went to the restroom, turned on the faucet, splashed some water on his face, then he headed for his car. He had to check up on her. "I shouldn't care that much, now, should I?" he thought, as he was rushing his car through the main avenues of East Saint Crux. The drive there was only about 15 minutes long, but it felt like ages. It felt as if, Joey was on his final ride. One last mission, before he was put out of commission.

The tires of his car screeched an infernal sound, almost like a Banshee from the Irish forests. He stepped outside of his car, slamming the door behind him. He charged for the front door of the broad's home and slammed his fists into the door, knocking. He was knocking with his left hand, while the right hand was pressing the doorbell histerically. "Come on, ragazza... answer me!" he thought, as he kept on knocking for minutes. "Hey! Cut that shit out! I'll call the police" yelled some angry neighbor from nearby. In one of his better days, Joey would pull out his revolver and have that bastard beg for mercy. But today was not a good day. She wasn't responding. Desperate times ask for desperate measures... he stepped away a few meters... then he charged towards the door with all his weight. He broke in. Finally! He hit the ground, unable to resist the momentum. No matter... he picked himself up in less than a second, searching the place for... her. She wasn't there...

Joey went outside for a moment... what the hell happened? Maybe... maybe she went shopping... buy herself something to eat... "I should've thought about this before smashing through her front door" he thought. "Nah, too late for apologies. Something is wrong over here." She wouldn't go shopping this early in the morning... not after a night at the club. Somebody must have picked her up... she didn't have any shoes last night... and her hand was bleeding... but who? He knew her as a loner... not the kind to hang around a lot of folks. Besides, can you really trust someone in this town?

As he was restlessly walking around her front door, it hit him... could it be? No. "Don't even think about that. The Keeper wouldn't dare touch her." he told himself, trying to calm down. It.... it must have been that guy... some... some guy in a dark coat at the club, last night. That guy looked like a creep more than anything else. If he dared touch her, he'll burry that bastard in cement shoes and throw him into the deepest pit of the ocean. Yes, he would break every single one of his bones... then pour gasoline over him and set that bastard on fire. Sitting down, smoking a cigarette, as he would watch that bastard burn. However, he still had a lot to go through before he got there. He had to find the bastard in the first place... he needed... Jones. Tarantello saved him last night... talking to Barbaria about Jones' offer. The poor bastard was probably still hanging in the basement of the club. He could arrange with Barbaria to let him go. He would owe him... big time.

His thoughts were intrerrupted, when he noticed it... on the right side of the front door... between two pieces of wood...

A handkerchief.