Outside, a lone police siren gave its long, solemn wail, a sound many had familiarized themselves with. Everyone had gotten louder over the past few years. As the decade roared, it only seemed right that the law howled back.
Inside, there was a cacophony of sound. Crash! The flick of a false light switch caused the shelves in the wall to collapse, sending the four remaining glassy bottles of liquor to the cold concrete floor. Warm shades of golden, orange, yellow, and purple flowed into the drain on the floor, evaporating from the room. A round, woven black carpet was hastily tossed onto the drain. There was a vigorous rustling as newspapers were tossed onto the tables—work desks, really—that lined the room. Drawers and closets slid open and closed as props were being moved and replaced. In went a beer stein, out came a desk lamp. The shot glasses were collected, exchanged for gilded fountain pens. A tickertape machine, waiting for the opening bell, was moved to a desk at the center of the room. It was seated beside a Victrola, blaring jazz music. This model, although the cheapest on the market, was capable of emitting music loud enough to pierce the heavens. In a swift motion, the needle was taken off of the jazz record, which was then replaced. When the needle fell back down again, gentle classical music fluttered through the air. As the room morphed, the crowd within it faded. Roughly fifteen people, all dressed in fine attire, glistening with unnecessary adornments, exited through a metal door in the back of the aforementioned closet. Through this door was a set of stairs, leading into a long, dark alleyway. Perfect for concealing an identity in a pinch such as this.
Three minutes. That was all it took for the crowd to evaporate. Three people. There were only three people left in the room. The first person worth noting sat at one of the desks, organizing papers, feigning work. With his neat black suit and striking red necktie, he certain seemed like an average professional. His brown eyes flicked across each document: first a newspaper, then a stock report, then some bills. With a pale hand in his neat, dark hair, he mumbled a few statements to himself. He was an actor preparing for the play.
Casually swung across a chair was the second man. He sat sideways on the chair, legs up over the arms, feet making no contact with the floor. He was a less formal than the first man. He wore a white shirt, black trousers, and black suspenders. His leather shoes were dull, cracked, and muddy. They were at the point where no amount of shining could improve them. The man himself was about as worn as his shoes. His blonde hair was ruffled and matted, his blue eyes were bloodshot, and his skin had started to tan like an animal hide. His teeth were long neglected, abused by years of smoking and chewing tobacco. Several of his teeth had given up, making a bold exit from his mouth. His remaining chipped, rotten, yellowed teeth formed his crooked, mischievous grin.
Some might have said the third person was not worth mentioning at all. Others may go as far as saying that the third person was the worst of the bunch. Her biggest crime, perhaps, was being a woman. Leaning on the table with the Victrola, she pulled her long, wavy hair from her face, tying it back with a ribbon; a more conservative look. With her ruddy-brown hair moved, the details of her face could be appreciated. She had bright, green eyes, seemingly full of knowledge. Her skin was smooth, still fairly young. The only blemish notable was a smattering of pale freckles. As much of a melting pot as America had become, no temperature could melt away her distant Irish heritage. In spite of her tall, thin figure, she wore the uninspired dress of a housewife. She wore a faded blue dress with pointed Chelsea dress collar. The dress was as dull as she was radiant, contradicting her beauty. Another contradiction was presented by her accessories. Glistening chandeliers hung from her earlobes, while enough pearls to fill the ocean swirled about her neck. Indeed, she was an unusual lady. Not only out of place, but out of fashion, seeming to walk along the lines of what society valued and what was scorned.
Truthfully, she was no Jezebel. Perhaps an Eve. She was troublesome, but not evil. She was lovingly married to a hardworking lawyer. She was a good housewife, but as crafty as a crow. Each morning, she fulfilled her chores and responsibilities accurately and at top speed. This freed her for the rest of the day to play her role in the business. She practically ran two households, her only children being her coworkers.
Then, there came the long anticipated knock at the door. The knock they had spent six minutes preparing for. The knock that they knew would come one day or another. The three exchanged stares in hesitation.
The man at the desk, however, was no longer present. While his body still sat behind a desk in a basement located somewhere in an office building of the Financial District, his mind wandered elsewhere. He recalled his childhood. When his family gathered, the alcohol was always the star of the gathering. Nothing seemed to warm the soul of a distant relative like a nice, cold glass of white wine. It always led to intimate conversations, laughter, and even some unskilled singing. Alcohol was not a bad thing, at least not in his mind. Yet, he remembered one particular meeting, one unlike the rest. January 16th, 1920 was a dark, cold day. In spite of the poor weather, his family had come together to celebrate his father’s birthday. As the gathering progressed, something came to his attention; there was less than half a bottle of white wine left. He was just about to open his mouth when he was interrupted by the radio.
“Today, the eighteenth amendment, a ban on the production, sale, and transport of alcohol went into effect. What do our people say? Listen to their opinions at ten o’clock!”
Immediately, he made the connection. Alcohol, which had been a positive aspect of his life, had been framed as a menace to society. Shock and disgust were all he could feel. Thus began his life as a criminal, at least as defined by the law.
The year was 1925. He constantly asked, “What defines a crime? Have I truly hurt anyone?”
The man sprawled out in the chair tossed his feet onto the floor, taking a dramatic stretch before standing. There was a knock at the door yet again.
“Police,” said a heavy but hesitant voice.
“Give me a minute,” the unkempt man barked back.
Open reaching the door, he undid the lock and threw it open. Before him stood two police officers, outfitted in twin blue jackets with glistening golden buttons. One of the officers was quite short, making him look quite clownish in his oversized jacket.
The shorter, more timid of the two said, “There was a noise complaint from a nearby building. We’re just here to make sure that everything is alright.”
“Alright? Everything’s ducky! We’ve got our Victrola and our favorite records. We’ve got stocks that are going to make us rich. The problem is, I tell you, that y’all have no idea how to have fun anymore. No one wants to enjoy themselves.”
He slunk across the office, grabbing a coffee pitcher and two chipped mugs.
“Coffee?” he shouted.
“No thanks,” said the taller, more stern police officer. “May we come in for a moment?”
“Certainly! Say, any records you want me to play? I’ve got all kinds of music, all good!”
The officers ignored his offer, stepping into the room. They briefly looked around. The office seemed innocent enough: desks, chairs, papers, tickertape. The only scent hanging in the air was bitter, the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The officers poked around the desks, never bothering to open any of the drawers or closets. The took a look at both men. The businessman did not strike them as suspicious. In their minds, he was just tired and anxious. A good man. Probably a family man. The disheveled blonde man seemed very much out of place. They took a good look at his face, but were unable to place it. He had not stopped jabbering since they arrived, swinging his one-sided conversation from music to politics. He was crazy, yes, but not at large.
“So, fellas, what are your opinions on President Coolidge? I miss good old Harding. Well, they all say he died of an illness, but I’ve got this theory. I believe that he was bumped off!”
“Sir,” chirped the shyer officer. “Please keep it down. Your neighbors… well… they don’t enjoy the noise and loud conversation. Your voice and music must be kept to a minimum.
“Have a good night. Stay safe. Don’t make us come over again,” grunted the more aggressive officer.
Suddenly, his eyes met with the green eyes of the lady.
“And you,” he declared. “Go home. It’s too late for an honest woman to be out. You should be with your family or husband.”
“Oh officer, this is home. I work in this office all day long, why stop because it’s dark?”
Her remark fell upon deaf ears. Perhaps it was her defiance, but it was more likely her sex. What say did she have? What power?
The tall officer stepped out the door with the shorter officer trailing behind him.
“Stay safe!” The kinder of the two called.
His light voice was overpowered by the slam of the heavy door. Crash! The slam lock on the door shut. Crash! The cheap print hanging beside the wall fell down. Footsteps travelled up the stairs. The businessman counted until it was clear that the officers had moved on, went back into the night, off to deal with real criminals.
The businessman gave off a chuckle. “Goodness… that’s the first time that happened. I’m glad that it’s over. Glad to still be walking.”
“Oh Raymond,” chimed the sloppy man. “You worry too much. You won’t get in trouble for drinking alcohol. Ain’t no evidence that we’re selling or transporting it. Hell, sure that if we gave ‘em a glass, they would have let us go all the same.”
With that, he threw himself back onto the chair, in yet another position the chair, nor his anatomy, was designed to support.
“Well I certainly wish I had your bravery, Lawrence, but—“
“Why, thank you.”
Lawrence grinned at him through his mangled teeth. Raymond shook his head.
“Listen. Tonight, we lost business, okay? Imagine if they arrested one of us—worse, all of us—we’d be out of business for a years, a lifetime, even. I worry all the time about our safety. The law says we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Oh, you and the law! That was all your family ever cared about, wasn’t it? Huh? City people. Not a lick of rebelliousness in you. You can defy the law. We ALL do at some point. Trick is, don’t get caught. Other trick is, keep to your morals.”
“Morals? Well, it really depends on h—”
Rubbing his eyes, Lawrence intervened once more: “Anyways, it’s a long way back to the flophouse. It’s too late for us to bring in another crowd and two late for me to deal with any of your dilemmas, Raymond.”
Finally, Helen Sinclair, the silent entity in the room disclosed her wisdom.
“Listen to you two! Keep your character conflicts out the business, fellas. You’re both outstanding, but there’s a reason you do different things.”
And she was right. Raymond was the one who owned the office building they sold from. During the day, the small building was bustling with journalists and investors. The basement was used as an office by Raymond; he would only receive dirt in rent, anyways. Lawrence kept their business stocked, travelling out of state in order to the secure the finest alcohol his bootlegger buddies could smuggle or produce. Driving her 1918 Premier no. 1 touring car, Helen transported the liquor to their speakeasy. Occasionally, if there were a surplus, she’d sell it to others. As wild as she may have looked at night, she just appeared to be a sweet and simple housewife during the day. Her careful driving, neat hair, lack of adornments, and sweet smile kept the police at bay. They never would have expected her to be smuggling alcohol. They never would have thought to search the car. Even then, they would have never found the compartment that one Lawrence’s friends had created in the interior.
Crash! The wood split on the arm of the chair Lawrence had been abusing, sending him to the floor. Raymond was quick to jump, offering a hand, pretending he was not concerned about the destruction of his chair. Helen just gave a smirk and a slight shake of her head. The room was muted. Slowly eye contact was broken, seemingly making a mutual agreement that they should all part ways, for the window of opportunity for the night had been violently slammed shut.
Helen was the first to leave, putting on her sweater and disappearing through the secret door. She could not afford to be seen by her neighbors; they would be suspicious as to why she was out so late without her husband. Lawrence left next, a slight smile still clinging to his face. It was as though his spirit was impossible to dampen. That left Raymond. It was he who shut the lights. It was he who locked the door. It was he who walked home alone, worrying about the future of the business.
***
Crash! The business began to fall apart at the seams. Lawrence, who secured their liquor, was dead. If he had left the speakeasy a little later or had taken the long, scenic route to the flophouse, he would have survived. He had gone to his room and immediately curled up in bed, preparing for a new, more successful business day. His room was quite shabby, but it did not bother him. The room was meant to protect him from the elements; he did not care that the sheets were stained and the carpet was always damp. The paper thin walls did no harm to him, either. Perhaps he should have been concerned about the crack in the ceiling; it was like a spider web that just seemed to be growing over time, never repaired.
That night, the ceiling collapsed. As he peacefully slept, a wooden dresser from the room above fell onto him, crushing his skull and beginning his eternal slumber.
The collapse of their ceiling caused an uproar in the building. Lawrence, on the other hand, was not found until fourteen hours later, when the owners of the building went to examine the damage done to the dresser. Without any form of identification, he was nobody to them.
Lawrence died hundreds of miles away from home. His family, living in Louisiana, had lost contact with him when he went to New York City. His corpse stayed sprawled on the bed until nightfall, when Raymond came to check on him. It wasn’t until the next night that he was unceremoniously buried in potter’s field, alongside thousands of other forgotten friends and family members. Raymond and Helen were the only ones there, offering love–but not tears–to their lost partner.
Three days of business were lost, but the speakeasy sputtered along, as did Helen’s car. Helen was now taxed with the responsibility of securing alcohol as well as transporting it. Driving through the winding upstate roads for hours on end, her car took quite a beating. What’s more is that as she dedicated more time to these illegal activities, her housework became sloppy, making her husband suspicious. Yet, he could not clip her wings. He worked from early in the morning until 8 PM, falling asleep as soon as he stepped into the apartment. More often than not, Helen found him asleep on their area rug, still wearing a suit. He was far too exhausted change his clothes and go to bed like anyone else. Perhaps that’s how he knew that her cleaning was less thorough than before. With his face on the rug, surely he could see all the crumbs and dust that were accumulating.
Helen’s husband was concerned about her safety, but not her fidelity. He placed great trust in her, and rightfully so. As much as she may have offended the law, she would never disgrace their marriage. Raymond, who took no interest in her to begin with, was merely a business partner. Men at the speakeasy gave their stares and compliments, but her answer was always the same:
“I’m married and I plan to stay that way.”
Thanks to her efforts, the speakeasy continued to flourish. One might even say that it was better without Lawrence. Helen never had to deal with he and Raymond bickering, nor was there ever another noise complaint, for Helen’s hand was the only one allowed to touch the Victrola. The only cops that came around were the ones seeking a sip of moonshine.
***
Three years was a pretty good run for a mouse. For a business, not as good. For in 1928, the speakeasy folded.
It was an unusually chilly October. Speaking of mice, Raymond had gone out to see a new, widely praised animated feature: Steamboat Willie. Like most Americans, he found himself charmed by Mickey Mouse’s antics and captivated by Disney’s animations. While he was having a delightful day, there was a disturbance elsewhere in the universe.
Helen’s car finally gave out after years of use and abuse. On her way to the speakeasy with a fresh stock, she met with one of the city’s recently installed traffic lights. The light flickered to red, so Helen put her foot on the break, but to no avail. The car kept moving, colliding with the vehicle in front of her.
Crash!
She was alright, but no secret compartment or explanations could hide the scent of alcohol wafting from her vehicle. The force of the impact had broken the majority of the bottles she had been carrying. It wasn’t long until the police found them. Off to the hoosegow she went. Her husband managed to have her freed. Naturally, she chose him over bootlegging.
After losing his remaining partner, Raymond put even more time and effort into investing. He lost a few dollars here and there, but managed to earn plenty of jack. He got a new apartment, nice furniture on credit, and even met a loving woman. When 1929 first rolled in, he was living in a world glistening with perfection.
Crash! This crash was not a sound, but an event. October 29th–Black Tuesday–marked the end of his success. The majority of his money had been invested in the stock market. It was gone now.
Crash! This one was audible. For just moments beforehand, Raymond had been standing on the roof of the office building he owned just off Wall Street, watching the pandemonium.
1 comment
Awesome article!