Private Eye

William, 11, San Francisco, CA

Editor's note: This story contains mature language.

Chapter I: Friends

I have two friends, and I travel with them. My friends are a .44 and a flask with the cheapest whiskey.

They take me everywhere, like a scene of two murders committed by a war veteran. That was my latest case – lotta Great War guys in 1933 New York. I had tracked this guy down to a warehouse. It was small, but still a lotta stuff inside. Haven’t told the police yet; too many parameters. I can take this guy out myself.

I walk up to the building, my rain jacket soaked. It’s raining, and 6:00 a.m., my .44 loaded … perfect. Sign says it’s abandoned, sure doesn’t look like it. I walk in. Unlocked ... convenient. Still wonder why it was. Pull out my .44, don’t want-a get caught without it. I hear running feet on the catwalk above. It’s him. I climb up the stairs, and I hear a “cha-chink.” Shotgun. It’ll be a nice souvenir.

“BOOM,” soup cans fly off the racks. I duck.

“Bang,” I fire a shot.

“Ugh,” I hear, as the man limps over to another section of the catwalks.

“Bang-Bang,” I fired two more shots … no hit.

Now, I’m down to three bullets and Mr. Crazy over there is probably reloading. So … what do I do? Well … shoot at him a ’course; he’s the bad guy. So I run forward toward him, fire a shot. The coward runs with his shotgun, limping, so I take the shot. I line it up and “BANG,” he falls onto a railing and slowly turns around. He fires, “BOOM,” and “BANG,” I put an extra round in ’em. He falls down to the first floor and slam … he’s dead. I walk down the stairs to see the body. He still has his shotgun in hand. There’s an emblem on it that says “Lime Green” or something like that. I take a shell from the shotty. Will be nice in my collection. I see red lights outside and hear talking. Cops. They kick down the door, trying to be cool. Just let me know they’re here.

“Clear,” they say constantly as they “clear” the warehouse. A few cops come near me and say, “Sir, put the weapon on the ground.”

I holster my empty .44 and take out my ID. “I’m a private investigator,” I say, annoyed. This always happens.

“Put your guns down, officers,” a voice booms. It’s Sgt. Greens with his Thompson. The only good thing about the police is that they get nice weapons. “He is an actual Private Eye, though he is breaking rules.”

So Green walks over to me and, I hate this, he takes my .44 and inspects it.

“Nice piece,” he says, jokingly. “But not to be used by private detectives, like yourself.” He hands me my .44. “Be careful with this around the chief,” he says. “How you get on?” He asks.

“Just fine,” I reply as the victim of my “brutal crime,” – as the city would call it – wakes up with an “ugh.”

I turn around and pull out my .44 and fire. “Click.” Shit. He picks up his shotty as I take out the cylinder. A policeman cocks his shotgun and aims it at the “victim,” but Sgt. Green hand signals him not to fire. I grab a handful of rounds from my pocket and slide them into the cylinder as he cocks the shotty with a smile on his face. I return the cylinder to its place in the revolver and fire three round into the guy. He dies on the first.

I walk outside. Sky is clearing from the rain, jacket dry, it’s sunny, and my .44 empty. I ask a friend for a drink, and he gets me some Scotch. I walk home with my black raincoat still on and reload my .44. I don’t trust the streets … but I do trust the bars. That was a pit stop. I got a drink, refilled my flask. I walk to the cop’s station. It’s made of red brick and is old. Real old, but probably saw it a lot, you living ’round here. I don't enter, too much talk. Round the block I make a right and I’m at my home, a small apartment that’s my office.

Chapter II: Death and Destruction

I sleep. For 8 hours. Rest the nerves. Didn’t take off my coat or hat. I thought it would be a nice rest. The following day would make me drink three cups of coffee. Anyways, someone knocks on the door and asks, “Is this Mr.—”

“Yeah,” I say before she finishes. “Go away now,” I crankily say.

“I was sent by Acme™.”

Now that catches my attention. Now you know Acme ™ is the biggest company in New York, right? I mean, they make money off crimes and booze, not cars and trains like they say. They pay the police so they don't get caught, and the F.B.I is using their banks. They got control over everything. Anyways I let her in. She’s nice. Got long brown hair and red lipstick. She’s wearing a blue dress and a red bow. Classic Acme™.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“John Acme been killed.”

Boom. That’s BIG. REAL BIG. I look at her, then to my deck. I get up and pull a cup of coffee out of a drawer. I then walk over to the door, without saying a word, and take my friends off the rack.

“Where to?” I ask.

“Acme HQ,” she says, following.

I open the door to the garage and enter my 1933 Ford model 40. It has wooden sides and a back interior. I have a suitcase in the back for … special occasions. As I drive, I ask her, “What’s your name?”

“Christen” she replies. “So,” I ask, as we round a corner. “Who do the police blame for the death?”

“Well Sgt. Green is the head of security,” she explains, “but he has no clue.”

“It could be rival companies, the mob, or even an employee,” I explain.

We stop talking when we see Acme HQ. It’s right in front of us and there are police cars everywhere. I drive around them and soon make our way to the front doors. There are four doors with glass windows, so we walk inside. There is a big room with shiny tan walls and a ceiling as high as Grand Central Station. Nice boasting, Acme. There are pillars everywhere. On the right side there is a gold colored deck, and behind it there are two elevators with each door colored golden. There are police officers everywhere either talking or questioning, no doubt, witnesses.

“Follow me,” Christen anxiously says. She leads me to Elevator 1. We enter. The elevator has a dark wood railing and the inside is, you guessed it, golden paint.

“So what happened?” I ask.

“We know this,” she says, facing me. “At 5:26 Sgt. Green and the security go up in Elevator 2 to the armory on the 27th floor. At 5:36 on the 17th floor Elevator 2 went to the 33rd floor, John Acme’s floor. At 5:37 the security heard gunshots. They knew it had to be on the 33rd floor so they went up with shotguns and Thompson in Elevator 2. At 5:38 Elevator 2 goes down to the 1st floor with the bodies of Sgt. Green’s security team with only Green alive, but with two .45 rounds in him. We arrive on the 33rd floor. When the doors open – jeez, I still can’t believe she didn’t warn me – there are three police officers on the floor with bullet holes in them.

Jumping back, I yell, “What the…”

“I should have told you,” she apologetically says.

I retake my ground and look around. There are two more bodies at a door near the center of the wall, but they’re in green uniforms. There’s two people taking pictures of the bodies. One at the elevator and one at the door. We step around the bodies and toward the others. There’s a door by the bodies. It reads “John Acme C.E.O.” I open. Inside, the walls are red fur, the floor is redwood, and on top of that is a $150 carpet leading to a black chair, a red velvet deck, and what is left of a window with too many bullet holes to count. There are bullet shells everywhere. I pick one up and expect it. It’s a .45 cal, and that means it was a Thompson.

“Detective,” Sgt. Green calls out, as I pick up the shell. “What are you doing here?”

“He’s working for ACME, Mr. Green,” Christen replies. “Just like you.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Green barks. “And that’s Sergeant Green to you!”

“Well, maybe—”

“Shut up,” I intervene, as I pocket the shell. “Green what do you have on the case?”

“Well, all the paperwork is still there,” he explains.

“You,” I order as I point at one of the policemen. “Go get me a briefcase.”

He rushes out the door.

“We also found—” Sgt. Green explains, as I cut him off.

“The window?” I ask as I lean out looking down on the flashing lights of the police.

“Acme was tossed out of it,” Green explains. “That’s how the police found out.”

The officer from before comes in with a briefcase. I take it out of his hands as I pack it full of paperwork. “What’s that for?” Green asks. “Acme might have signed a contract he couldn’t follow up with, gotten blackmailed, or angered the mob, and if he did do something it will probably be in the, the—,” I explain as Green cuts me off.

“—paperwork,” he finishes my sentence.

“Exactly,” I respond. “And once I figure that out, we can do some shooting,” Green smirks as I walk out of the room.

Chapter III: Pieces

I get into my car as Christen runs from the elevator.

“Wait, stop!” she calls out as I rev up the car.

Rolling my eyes, I take the keys out of the ignition. “What?” I ask.

“The company wants Sgt. Green to come with you,” she explains leaning into the car window.

“Tell him I’ll be in my office,” I respond.

I drive off to my office where I take the paperwork and examine it. It's mostly contracts, stock, that kind of thing, but a few pages do stand out. Acme’s personal bank account shows many transactions to an account with no name every four months or so. January 20th, June 12th, October 5th, only last year, but a few weeks ago the account gave Acme’s personal account a classified transaction after a much smaller transaction from Acme. I pin the paper to the wall. They are also newspapers in the stack of mess of accounts and contracts.

January 21th: “RightWinger factories destroyed and trains derailed, RightWinger forced to sell to Acme.” June 13th: “Bomb planted on Continental Airlines C.E.O plane. 17 dead.” June 17th: “Acme buys out Continental Airlines.” October 6th: “Watterson Brothers Failed Assassination, La-Quana mob family caught red handed.” And only a few weeks ago: “La-Quana family declared guilty.”

I pin the newspapers to the wall. It does take a genius to figure out what happened, but is it possible the Mob killed Acme? The door opens. I pull out my .44 and aim it at the dark figure in the doorway. They fall as Green walks in from behind with a bloody knife. I holster my gun. Green asks, “Who’s he?” as he steps over the body.

“One of my many enemies,” I respond.

“What’s this you have here?” he asks as he looks over the papers I’ve pinned to the wall.

“Pieces of the puzzle,” I respond.

“Anything we can work off?” he asks.

“Well,” I explain, pointing at the account paper, “Acme was paying the Mob to do his dirty work – sabotage, murder, anything that could get Acme a smaller company – but after the La-Quana family was caught killing a rival company of Acme, everything fell apart, and Acme’s personal account reserved a large sum of money. Now who that is from? I think it was the La-Quana family for getting their best assassins for getting in the slammer. After that, I wouldn’t see any reason to kill Acme, but that money probably isn’t the full story.”

“So,” Green asks. “What now?”

“A business trip,” I respond.

Chapter IV: A Business Trip

Hey, listen, if you're ever downtown on 44th Street and you get in some … trouble … go to Acme Warehouse 215. It looks abandoned, but inside are some of my … pals. It is the Mussilen La-Quana gang. There is also a … place … with girls and drunk policemen in there. I’ll put in a good word for ya. Anyways, what was I talking about? Ah, yes, the La-Quana gang. I walk in through a backdoor in a stairwell near an alley. As I walk past, I see the outline of two men in black coats beating a sober cop. I knock on the door. A slide opens.

A voice says, “An old man drinks some cider and then moves the kettle?” “What does this mean?” the voice asks again.

“Let me in, dumbass,” I say, annoyed.

The voice opens the door. I’m greeted by a room with red velvet walls and floor. A red velvet stage with a dame singing. I don't listen. On the left are tables with drinks and mostly drunk police. There’s one guy even betting money on red in Russian roulette. He’s so drunk he doesn’t realize that it's rigged. Anyways, I make my way to a doorway with some red velvet curtains hiding what’s behind. There are two guards with black hats, coats and pants.

I say, “I’m here for Mussilen.” And they step aside. Ahead of me is a desk with a fat Italian guy behind it.

“Ah, look,” he says to a man with glasses and Tommy gun-wielding guards. “It’s the detective who saved us last week!”

The man with glasses turns to me and annoyingly says, “Saved is a bit too celebratory, I think.”

“No, no, no,” says Mussilen. “He saved this whole place and the gang. I would give anything to him.”

“What about some information then?” I ask.

Mussilen looked at me blankly before saying, “What would this information be?”

“The assassination of John Acme.”

Mussilen looked at me blankly before saying, “We had nothing to do with that.”

“Well your assassins got out of a crime they definitely committed,” I respond.

“Don’t,” Mussilen states.

I breathe in. “What about the payment to Acme?!” I interrogate.

“Don’t ruin your reputation with the family detective!” Mussilen shouts. The guards aim their Tommys at me.

“I don’t need a good reputation to get information out of you,” I threaten.

Chapter V: Shock

I hate Grand Central. I hate it. Noisy, loud, and too many pickpockets. Most people under the age of 12 do it. Not kids. I keep my .44 in my hand under my coat. I spin the cylinder. “Click, click, click.” I walk like stone on my way to Platform 13, elbow pushing. Some people look back at me weirdly. I don’t care. I walk down the steps to a black concrete floor. In front of me are two steaming locomotives. Black. People are rushing past, to get out of this crime-ridden town, others trying to get in. I walk past the locomotives and toward Platform 13. I walk under the sign and see Green “Central Pacific” cars. I walk into Car 7. It’s the cheapest my friends would allow. First class. I sit down in cushioned seats and lie back. Just need to wait until Sgt. Green gets here. I look out the window and see a family of three being harassed by some obvious pickpockets.

“Stay away,” the male says. They look poor. The Great Depression is still affecting people, even after Roosevelt started to get the economy back in action. The pickpockets overwhelm the man, then grab the wife’s purse, and run off into the crowd. My friend gets me a drink.

Sgt. Green sits down in a blue coat, hat, and pants next to me and asks, “You ready?”

“Ya,” I responded. The train lurches forward with a great huff of steam. A conductor on the platform waves forward and blows his whistle. Soon we’re out of the station steaming past farms and roads. It’s nearly 11:00 p.m. Sgt. Green stands up and recommends, “We should go ahead.” I stand up and walk forward with Green. I grab the sides of seats as the train makes turns. I hear the sound of steel on iron and whistle of the locomotive. People are talking, not giving us a care. As we walk into first class, one man with a top hat with a red ring on the bottom and wearing a red velvet suit looks at us with his hand is his coat. No doubt grabbing a pistol. But he’s first class and that means he’s rich. The rich don’t kill. It would “ruin their reputation.” We make our way from car to car until we reach the door that says “Private Car” with two men wearing all black and one of them with dog tags. The one with dog tags looks at Green. They don’t have any visible weapons, but this “Private Car” is owned by the mob.

“Sorry, but you fine folks can come,” one explains as he holds up his hand.

The one with dog tags looks at Green, squinting. “I know,” Green says as we begin to go past another train. It’s loud. Loud enough to cover the sound of two dead bodies hitting the floor. As Green puts away his bloody knife, I open the door to the private car. We walk down the tight aisle in between the rooms of this car and the wall with only a single person with dog tags. I listen to the conversation in every room. Most of them are mobsters sleeping. I hear, “I tell you, Mr. La-Quana, I can’t do this without your funding,” from the next room. I hand signal this info to Green. We line up behind the door as we wait.

As the train speeds through a crossing, blowing its whistle, we make our move. Green kicks open the door as I fire a round into a guard. Inside there is a table, two alive guards on either end, Mussilen, on the right side, sitting, and on the left another mob boss. Green swiftly turns left and fires his Colt 1911 twice into the leg, and then gut, of a guard. I aim right and fire my .44 into the next of the guards. We did all of that in under five seconds as the locomotive blew its whistle. La-Quana tries to pull out his snub-nosed revolver, but I kick it out of his hands. Green closes the door to the room as Mussilen shouts, “What do you think you're doing?!”

“Like I said,” I remark. “Don’t need a good reputation with the family to get information out of you.”

Green tosses me some rope as he ties up the other mob boss. I take out my knife and stab Mussilen's knee, parting his joints.

“Argh,” he cries outs. I leave the knife in him.

“Now,” I ask, “What do you know about the assassination of John Acme?”

“We didn't do it,” he quietly says in pain while biting his lip.

“Of course,” Green sarcastically agrees. “‘My gang didn’t do it.’ Well listen, ‘buddy’ if you don’t cough up the information soon, you’ll be coughing up blood.”

“I tell you, it wasn’t us,” he explains.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he angrily says as he pulls out his knife.

“Green, we need him alive,” I point out. “Let me take over.”

Green sits in one of the bloody seats around the table.

“Why did you do it?”

“We didn’t, but it would be nice if we could have,” he explains. “After the conviction Acme didn’t want any loose ends. He hired the other mobs to attack us. This train car is the last of us.”

“Why didn’t Acme get your guys out of conviction?” I ask.

“After the many attacks the political power in Acme’s pocket drained. They didn’t like the fact that soon New York was going to turn into Acme-ville.”

“He’s lying,” Green says as he walks to the man on the other side of the table.

“Ya,” I agree as I walk over towards him. As I’m walking in front of the door, we begin to pass another train. Suddenly the door bursts open. A man in black charges at me, knocking me on the table and breaking it in half. While I’m getting up, I see that it is that man with the dog tags. He pulls out a snub nosed .44, but I kick it out of his hand before he can aim it. He then picks me up and throws me across the room. I land near Mussilen. I pull out my .44 and they get to me first, stepping on my wrist. I drop the gun as they begin to beat me. After he punches me in the face seven times, he begins to choke me. I look around for any possible escape. Then I see Green, his hands shaking, not firing at the man killing me.

I call out as loud as I can, “Green, do something.”

The killer looks at Green and says something that I’m too busy to hear. I flip the killer over and begin to punch him. He grabs my right hand with his left and says, “Wait.”

I grab his left hand and hit him and again and again and again. Soon all the blood in his head is gone. I pick myself up and rest, laying my back on the wall.