Gerry Goes Home

Gerry stared into the flames. The aroma from the boiling pot hanging from the trivet took him back to the days of the victory celebrations in Paris eleven years ago. The Great War was unkind to so many of thousands of soldiers America had sent, and it was no less for him.

Yet, Gerry still had managed to find the nerve to become a Philadelphia police officer. Madeleine had never been able to understand, for the war had injured him permanently, but he had still come home. Then, she still had to worry everyday about him coming home.

He snickered at the recollection of the victory parties in France because he knew that inside the pot was more likely to be rat than beef. Gerry’s stare went from the flames to his ripped and blackened pinstripe pants and heavily scuffed Graftons. It was then that the putrescence of the alley made its way into his nostrils. His stomach lurched as he was snapped back into the moment.

The ale and wine that he had enjoyed those many years ago, in France, had been his last, for Prohibition had just passed when he returned home. Promoted to Lieutenant two years ago, Gerry was no longer on the beat, but was instead one of the lead detectives in rooting out Philadelphia’s speakeasies, and in the city there was only one name you needed to know when it came to alcohol, Boo Boo Hoff. That was the lead Gerry had been following only an hour ago before all hell broke loose. Gerry lifted his gaze to the homeless man sitting across from him, the man’s gloved hand stirring the pot excitedly as he smiled through his dirt-stained face.

Gerry sat in the department’s newest Model A, black as all the other undercover cars the department used. Word had come to him that Boo Boo was running a speakeasy called Club 21 from his residence on Locust Street. He parked the car on Juniper Street, a block north of the residence, and sat in the dark. Surely there had to be a delivery tonight, Thursdays were the day to stock up for the weekend.

Gerry couldn’t shake the distraction of the day, the second anniversary of Maddie’s murder. As he sat alone in the car, he struck a match and lit the Camel he had just pulled from the pack. He also couldn’t shake the fact that his partner, Charlie, had been temporarily reassigned for the night. Lost in thoughts of what Charlie might be up to, he had failed to recognize the danger of the car parked behind him. And that’s when the music of the Tommy Guns rang out.

As the rear window exploded in the rain of bullets, he ducked down behind the seat and started the car. In a moment he was seated upright again and speeding down Juniper. The tires screeched as he made a left onto Spruce Street, the headlamps of the car chasing him quickly followed as the gunshot barrage continued.

Saying a prayer for the emptiness of the streets, Gerry pushed the Model A to its limits as he hung another left onto 6th Street. It was all he could do to keep control of the car as he weaved the streets of Philadelphia, and yet, his pursuers kept on his tail like a snake after prey. And a second car had joined the pursuit, from where Gerry had no idea. He was hopelessly outgunned.

Eventually, Gerry found himself speeding down Girard Avenue and hanging a left onto Aramingo. The gunfire had, by then, done quite a number on his car, and he could feel it running out of juice. The pursuers seemed to have an endless supply of bullets, and it seemed that they intended to use them all before they killed him. Then, out of nowhere, one of the bullets took out a tire and he flipped. He felt himself fly through the windshield and into the air, the moments dragging out to an eternity. And then he was wet…

He gathered his wits while underwater and slowly came to the surface. It was the Frankford Creek, not very deep, but he could stay well-hidden if he kept low. Gerry’s gaze went to the inferno that his car had become, and the silhouettes of his pursuers waiting to see his burning body inside. As quietly as he could, Gerry exited from the creek and followed its course upstream until he got to Frankford Avenue. Charlie lived up by the bus station, and his only hope was to see if he was home.

Gerry saw no lights lit in Charlie’s place, so he chose to hide in an alley across from the bus station. No doubt that the gangsters knew who he was, so there was no doubt that they’d know his partner and would come searching for him here. The hobo he stared at wore a tattered fedora and suit, and expensive by the looks of it. He must’ve lost a fortune on Black Thursday, six months to the day. But he was happy stirring his rat soup in the middle of all this back alley garbage.

The footfalls were heavy, and the outline of the man responsible was large and stark against the streetlamps behind him. Gerry had been found, now he had to hope that he wasn’t recognized. Tony Four-Fingers made his way to the hobo in a flash, and as Tony knelt down to face the man, cigar stub between his teeth, he flicked his own fedora off of his forehead to expose his eyes.

Gerry’s hand lay beneath his coat, his Colt pistol in hand and cocked. “Hey Stinker,” Four-Fingers said to the hobo, “have you seen a filthy copper around here?” Then his gaze slowly turned to Gerry, a devilish smirk on his face. He had been made. And with a quickness that would make his hero, Doc Holliday, proud, Gerry drew his pistol and shot the gangster square in the chest. Four-Fingers fell onto his back, hand to his chest. The hobo screamed and took off down the alley. And Gerry stood, gun drawn. Watching his victim writhe in pain, he kicked the bottom of the pot hard enough to overturn it and spill its boiling contents on Tony’s face. The scream unleashed was savage and primal. As the rat soup pooled about the toppled tivet, Gerry pointed the barrel of the Colt at Four-Finger’s head. He felt the anger welling up inside of him. he had made it through two years of trench warfare, and charges through No Man’s Land, and he was not about to lose his life at the hands of some villainous henchman on the streets of Philly.

“Goodbye, gangster scu…”

The gunshot rang out like a tolling bell, and Gerry felt the breath get kicked out him. His vision blurred as he fell to the ground. By the fire still lit for cooking the rat soup, Gerry could see Charlie’s face.

“I tried, Gerry, to talk you out of detective work. And when that didn’t work, I took Madeleine from you. And you still didn’t stop. You stop now, my friend. Nobody stands in Boo Boo’s way.”

As the world began to darken, Gerry smiled. “Maddie, I’m comin’ home.”