“Hey George.” I said to the man at the bar. A close friend of mine, a companion in my investigations. “I got work for ya.”
George poured a icy beer into a mug and slid it to me. “What’s up Valentine?”
I surveyed the room, just regulars littered the stools and booths of the dingy bar in Soho. It wasn’t much to look at, but that’s what made it so perfect. The shutters were always hiding the faces and names of those inside, and no one expected me to do my business out of this place.
“I have a job from a local up-and-comer, a politician named Steven Shimada,” I said, taking a quick sip from my beer. “He has plans to replace Mayor Wagner, but that old man never wants to give up the throne.”
“So what’s he want you to do about it?” George leaned in closer.
“He wants dirt, anything that could topple the Wagner empire. Even if it means creating some dirt myself, see?” It was a frigid night, about ten o’clock, December, 1956. Robert Wagner had been the mayor of New York for around two years now, and someone already wants him gone. Plenty o’ people in fact, but it’s not my place to judge. I’m not much into politics.
“You take the job?” George asked.
“You kidding? You know who the Shimada’s are?” Judging by his reaction, George had no clue. “They are a wealthy family out of Manchuria. Very wealthy. Their son, goes by the name Steven now, rode the first boat he could to the U.S. Wanted to stake his own claim in the U.S, not ride off his family name, I suppose. Foolish really. Shimada has no idea what he’s in for here.”
“Tell me about it.” George motioned for the back, and I followed him to his office. “I’ve seen Wagner marching down Soho before. Not sure what he does, though that old warehouse, on 22nd and 24th?”
“What of it?”
“I’ve seen his car pick him up from that corner, yards from that old place,” George shrugged. “Could be a coincidence, but ya never know.”
“Thanks Georgie, I’ll start there.” I put my hat back on and motioned for the door.
“I’ll be out at eleven, I’ll meet you then.” George held the door for me, and I smiled his way.
I left the bar, and slid into my car. A simple ‘55 Buick, nothing too flashy, keeps me on the down low. I drove to the spot, 22nd and 24th, and popped the car into park. I sat for a moment, scoping out anything out of order.
“What the hell?” I whispered to myself. I pulled binoculars from under my passenger side seat. I placed them on my eyes, focused them in, and pointed them in the direction of the warehouse entrance. The large metal door slid open, and a man emerged, allowing the truck to pass. The man had a small-caliber gun holstered to his side. “Strange a warehouse worker needs a gun.”
I got out of the car, a pushed my coat over my own weapon to conceal it from view. I crossed the street to get a clearer view of the building. It was in upstanding condition, despite being built in the 20’s, and there were men scattered around all sides of it protecting it.
Protecting what? As I thought what to do, another car wheeled around the corner and pulled up behind mine. I recognized the ‘54 Impala anywhere, Georgie. I checked my watch, 11:10. Always on time. I tip-toed my way to his car, and slid myself into the passenger seat.
“What you got Valentine?” George asked.
“Four, maybe five guards on the outside. Armed. Little peashooters, but they’ll kill anyone well enough. Whatever is in there, it’s some high value stuff.” I pulled out my pocket journal, and recorded what we knew so far. Wagner in the area, guarded warehouse, all that jazz. “If Wagner does come here, and these goons let ‘em? We’ve got some serious dirt.”
“What you want me to do?”
“I’ll need a distraction. Nothing to get ya killed, but enough for them to turn an eye.”
George stepped out of the car, and I followed. “I got just the plan,” He said.
I crossed the street once again, and peered towards the warehouse once more, waiting for George to make a move. Suddenly, a gunshot sprang off in the distance, just down a block, and the guards lit up and began hustling around. I made a dead-sprint for the warehouse, and quickly slithered my way inside.
I heard running outside, and car wheels squealing off the pavement. Hopefully George got away. I shuffled along the back shelves of the warehouse, being especially wary to listen for footsteps of any sort. I got closer to warehouse’s main office, and I peeked through the window. Inside, a group of men sat huddled around a large table, talking over something I couldn’t hear. I pulled out my camera, and snapped a quick photograph of the men, before seeking a hiding spot. I squeezed myself between two shipments stored near the main office, and waited patiently.
After some time, the men emerged from the room, three of them going one way, armed, while one walked alone with a binder. I have to get that binder. I tailed the man, he was walking quickly as he could, and we crossed paths at the door. I grabbed him by his mouth and neck, putting him in a headlock. I struggled for a moment, but he was soon unconscious, tucked between more shipping crates.
I flipped through the pages of the binder, a book filled with transactions from the past few months. I pocketed the binder, and made a hasty retreat back to the main office. The door creaked open, but I quickly made it inside and shut it with little notice. Inside, I found a map sprawled across the table the men were gathered about before. On the map, pins were stuck all over Soho, and across the other boroughs as well, but I had no idea what they meant. I snapped more photos and moved on. I looked through shipping crates, all filled to the brim with various illegal substances. Cocaine, weapons, all sorts of contraband that is shipped here off the books. I went for the door, and slipped out before any of the men returned to their posts.
The next afternoon, I visited George at the tavern, and shared with him the photographs I had developed.
“Lot of dough to be made off’a all that.” George fingered is way through the photos, and stopped on the map. “More warehouses no doubt.”
“I figure. If we can tie Wagner to this, we might not just be helping Shimada, but this could be the case of the century. I’m going to talk to Police Chief Turner in an hour,” I sipped from a beer bottle.
“You sure? You know NYPD is corrupt, Wagner could have them in his pocket,” George looked worried, a rare emotion for him.
“Im sure Georgie. Turner is an old pal, he fought corruption in his old station for months, before being brought up the ladder. He’ll know what to do.” I gave George a quick handshake, and made my way for the station.
When I arrived, the place was a buzz, I heard officers yelling about 22nd and 24th. No doubt the proprietor saw my handiwork, and called for an investigation. I shuffled my way past press and marched straight to Turner’s office.
“It’s good to see you Valentine,” he began with a smile. “But, trust me here, you can’t fight this.”
I notice him becoming nervous. It is Wagner. “What do you mean Allen?” I asked.
“There are just some things you don’t mess with pal.” He moved to shut the door. “You will get buried, by paperwork, lawyers.” He stopped for a moment. “Or six feet under.”
“Is that a threat?” I shot back.
“Not from me. But these officers know you, you come in here all the time. They know you’re a PI, and that you get results. They also know who pays their checks, and gives them immunity. They know who to protect, and who not.” Turner wheeled his chair out, and sat down. “I’m not gonna try and stop you, but they will.” Turner pointed out towards the floor, and many cops had gathered around, and were watching us talk.
“Even you, huh?” I spat. “You used to fight the corruption, and now you’re at the friggin’ heart of it.” Before he responded, I bursted out his office door, and made for my car. I realized it’s me alone against this corruption. Or, me and George. As I grabbed for the door, two officers blocked my way.
“What’s the rush?” One asked.
“Out of my way.” I tried forcing the pair away, but was grabbed from behind. Suddenly, my world was black, as the officers threw a bag over my head. I struggled to get free, panicking in fear. I heard Turner’s voice, but the others wouldn’t listen to him, and continued to pull me alone. I heard door’s open, and was thrust into the back of a cruiser.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, remaining calm.
“None ya business,” An officer replied. I wriggled around, but my hands were cuffed on the way out. Trapped. I sat motionless, realizing there was nothing I could do but talk my way out. Not my strong suit.
“You’ll never find the evidence I’ve collected, I’ll get out, I’ll give it to my client and he’ll be home free for the Mayor spot,” I said. “Even if I don’t deliver it, someone else will.”
“You mean your buddy George from the Snakehole Lounge?” The officer chimed. My blood ran cold, and I choked up. How’d they know George? Have I put him in danger? “We caught him last night, firing shots around the warehouse. You know, the one you invaded? He didn’t squeal or nothin’, we just figured it was you. You two have been running around on your detective sprees since ‘52.”
“I had nothing to do with George,” I lied. “I was there alone last night.”
“Oh you can’t save him now buddy. He knows our op, you know it. Blood is gonna spilled, one way or another.”
The car finally stopped, and the officers yanked me from the car and dragged through a door. The familiar sound of the lights flickering and the scent of beer and body odor told me I was at Georgie’s. I was plopped down on the floor and the blindfold was removed from my head. In front of me, I saw George, in even worst condition, wrapped in rope and chain.
“A tough one,” the cop said, “had to tie ‘em up to avoid any mishaps.” The cop kicked at George, waking him up.
“Don’t tell him nothing Valentine!” He shouted as soon as he saw me. “These pigs got nothing on us!” The cop jabbed him with a boot, and he groaned in pain.
“You have some explaining to do boys.” The officer revealed a shining new .500 revolver from his belt, and pulled the hammer back. “Real quick like.”
“We ain’t telling you s***!” George spit on the officers boot. The cop shot a round into George, piercing through his leg. The sound was a deafening, but as my hearing came back, I heard him screaming in agony.
“George wasn’t there! I just drink here, that’s it!” I shouted.
“Is that right?” He c***ed the hammer again. “Then what?”
I was panicking, I didn’t know what else to do. “Fine,” I whispered. George looked towards me, in distress. “I nabbed a binder, that’s it. The sales book. You know, the one that shows the Mayor’s overseas businesses?”
The officer aimed his gun at me. “You know too much it seems.”
“You can’t kill me, or you’ll never find the binder.” I knew that much to be sure.
The officer smirked back at me. “Well, I can kill him to make sure you never talk.” He aimed his revolver at George. I screamed and shouted, but it was too late. A round was fired, and killed George on impact. In a rage, I screamed and struggled, when the officer helped me up, I headbutted him, trying to kill the man. He smashed my head with the revolver, and I was out cold once more.
When I awoke, we were at my apartment, and I showed him where the binder was located. He flipped through the pages, and took it with him. Once again, he knocked me unconscious, and when I awoke again, I was in my apartment, uncuffed, in bed.
“D--- it,” I groaned. My head pounded, but I quickly got up and checked my safe for the rest of the evidence. Tucked conveniently behind my couch, the officer didn’t notice it, and I still had enough evidence to prosecute Mayor Wagner. I had photos of the contraband, the map, and some files linking Wagner to the whole operation. But George. I thought to myself what happened, watching my friend die in front of me. Even if I could get Wagner removed from office...it wouldn’t bring justice to George. I think it’s time to end the whole deal.
I drove to the Shimada building, and arranged a meeting with Steven immediately. I was escorted to his office, perched at the very top of the tower. His secretary opened the door, and I threw the evidence on his desk.
“Something bothering you, Mr. Valentine?” Shimada asked.
“Yeah, you could say that. Things got a little more, complicated, than I expected.” I explained to Shimada the situation.
“That’s terrible. Worse than I thought. I’m sorry about your loss. I will compensate you well, but I know that it won’t bring back your friend.” Shimada shook my hand, and like that, we went our separate ways.
Months passed since the operation was brought down. The federal government was brought in after Shimada pulled some strings, and had the secretary of state view the evidence. I sat alone in the Snakehole Lounge, which never felt the same again after Georgie died, although the new owner was nice enough. After George’s funeral, I hung up the gun, I can’t keep working knowing I lost someone so close. Shimada offered help in finding George’s killer, but I told him not to bother. I’m out of the game, for good.