One of Many - A 1920's Short Story

1920’s Story

One of many

I was a rookie, only 27 years of age. I believe it was November 5, 1923, when I was given the icy mitt by Amelia Earhart, we met at a local speakeasy, my cop buddies had urged me to say hello, I did have an edge, so of course I did. Looking back, I don’t know if I should cry or laugh, knowing her fate and all. But I do know that in that moment of utter rejection, I wasn’t the same. I was a cop, I didn’t make heavy sugar, and all of the dolls knew it. After that night, I wasted most of my jack in the speakeasies, if one was busted, I simply followed the trail of bootleggers. I started to get blotto almost every night, I was on the verge of becoming a dew-dropper.

One night, a local cake-eater approached me, I hadn’t the slightest clue why he wanted anything to do with me. At first we simply made small talk, but then he began interrogating my about if I am pleased with my job, and my morals. “I can help you, if you desire, it wouldn’t be an issue, my friend’s would love a bimbo like you…” He had droned on most of the night, and when I had to blow the speakeasy, he wrote an address on a napkin, slipped it in my coat pocket, and then whispered to me. Spitting in my ear he said, “If you decide that your job isn’t working out for you, come and see me…” With that he disappeared, not making another sound.

Two months later, after debating with myself endlessly, I went to my first clandestine meeting. From then on the cake-eater had me to some measly tasks here and there, ‘forgetting to take a statement’, distracting a fellow cop. The longer I was in his employ, the more substantial the favors and tasks. Soon, I became someone he could trust, and we became, in a sort, friends.

My “clearance level” kept increasing, as I met boss, and boss’s boss, until finally I met the big man, the man known as Bugs Moran. I met him with fear cringing through my body, if I recall right, I believe I flinched each time he took a step towards me. Moran embraced me with a hug and a threat upon my life. He acknowledged what I had done for his “business”, and thanked me for my lack of morals. All I could stutter was, “Thank.. You.. Sir.. For.. your.. Employ.. Ment..” He chuckled and slapped me across my face. “Are you disrespecting me, I am your host, show me some respect.” After that I rarely encountered Bugs, unless it was urgent.

I worked in Moran’s organization up until he was arrested. February 16, 1929, I replaced the cake-eater, who never actually told me his real name, the organization took the 15th to mourn the loss of the men gunned down the day before, The St. Valentines Massacre. One of my friends was one of Capone’s victims, not cake-eater, but another guy, and I wanted revenge.

Moran told me to be patient, to wait for my moment, our moment. I waited, and waited, but that coward seemed only to be interested in preserving his “business.” But I couldn’t wait, I needed to take him out. I tried to kill him, I tried to kidnap him, I tried to run him over; but he was untouchable. So, I did what I should have been doing all of those years, I practiced law. I followed paper trails, the ones that existed. I servailed his movements, trying to catch him in a caper. And then I had found it, the link that could get him off the streets, make him suffer, put him in a cage.

I rushed to my precinct, rambling on about how we could finally put Capone behind bars, how we could get rid of a gangster ruining our city. I told them my plan, and they turned to me, almost looking sorry at me and said, “Yes, son, we could get him that way, if only…”

“If only what,” I questioned, suspicion clouding my confidence.

“Son, did you just take that idea out of the newspaper or something?”

“No, I did this myself, why.”

“Capone was arrested last night, for..”

“Don’t say it.”

“Tax Evasion.”

“That’s exactly what I told you not to say.”

All my work, for nothing. Now, I sit here in my wheelchair, 46 years later, remembering. All I did was for nothing, my reasons meant nothing. I sit here alone, no woman to warm my bed, no metals to award my honor nor duties I accomplished, no revenge for my friend, and no redemption for my sins.

I write this to any politician, officer, regular old person, don’t do it. I know it is tempting, but its not worth the misery, at the end when you want to be redeemed, and in the end when you weigh your good and evil, your sins will lose your chance. So as a man, a man who knows, don’t corrupt yourself, no matter what. ---Unless it’s for puppies, do whatever you have to for puppies, they are adorable

Sincerely,

Corrupt Cop :: William Davidson