Table of Contents
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Glossary of 1920s Slang
More from Charlie Cochet
About the Author
By Charlie Cochet
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Copyright
Roses in the Devil's Garden
By Charlie Cochet Fallen Rose: Book One
Working for the Bureau of Prohibition means facing dangerous criminals, desperate gangsters, speakeasies springing up overnight, a city controlled by corruption, and an employer that can't be trusted. If that's not enough, best friends and lovers Harlan Mackay and Nathan Reilly still bear the scars--both seen and unseen--that they earned fighting in the First World War. When a ghost from the past resurfaces to destroy everything they hold dear, it might be the last straw for Harlan and Nathan.
New York City is a war zone, the government is in the pocket of organized crime, and the exposure of their illicit romance is a constant danger. For Harlan and Nathan, it's not a question of whether they'll escape unscathed, but of which enemy will get them first....
Chapter One
"THIS STORY has no moral, this story has no end, this story only goes to show, that there ain't no good in men...."
Why wasn't he surprised the dance floor was flooded by couples hoofing it to a tune about murder? It said a hell of a lot about the times they were living in. More than Agent Harlan Mackay cared to admit. It was ironic. All this trouble to cleanse the country of its depravity and heathen ways, and instead, the line between law-abiding respectability and delinquency had become blurred to the point of near extinction. Nowadays, even Granny was making a mint from the nice young boys running a gin mill from her basement--something which would have been a step up from this joint.
This particular saloon was an old house converted into a sanctum of illicit activity, where everything from bootlegged liquor to prostitution was not only available, but encouraged. The city had thousands of joints like it, and for every one that closed down, three more popped up--in basements, flower shops, bakeries. No place was sacred. Not churches or funeral parlors. The latter being the worst of them.
The limited space in the saloon was occupied by a makeshift stage, overcrowded dance floor, and a chipped wooden bar stretching from one end of the room to the other, crowded with folks packed shoulder to shoulder, throwing back the hooch. Shoved out of the way into darkened corners and gaps, were little square tables dressed in white tablecloths--a poor attempt to add some class. The cigarette and cigar smoke was so thick, it could have been mistaken for a London fog.
Plenty of well-to-do society folks had come out slumming, dancing the Charleston and the Bunny Hug in fancy beads and frilly feathers. The dames in their Dutch Bob cut and rouged knees drank nearly as much as their beaus, who in their bright colored shirts and ostentatious bow ties were no doubt bursting to share their scandalous exploits with their less-adventurous pals at the office come Monday morning.
If they only knew.
On stage, the fairies and lady-lovers danced, hugged, and kissed. They mingled and teased the crowd in a way that only years ago would have had them all thrown in a wagon and carted off to the hoosegow. If they even made it that far.
America had become the devil's den, and New York City its garden. Most of the time, Harlan didn't know what to make of it.
"Why do I let you talk me into these things?" Harlan peered down with a frown at the questionable-looking liquid in his glass. Granted, it had been a long time since he'd had whiskey of any discernible value, but he was pretty certain it wasn't supposed to be the unsettling yellow-green concoction before him. As he cast a glance over at his partner--Agent Nathan Reilly--his frown deepened. Nathan appeared too amused for his own good.
Nathan gave him one of his cocky lopsided grins. "Because you love my sense of adventure." In Harlan's opinion, Nathan enjoyed his job far too much.
"Is that what we're calling it?" Harlan grumbled, bracing himself as he took a sip of a drink that set him back as much as a week's worth of dinners at the automat. "Dammit." He coughed and sputtered, dribbling a good portion of the stuff on his vest.
Nathan didn't bother holding back his laughter. "That good, eh?"
"Tastes like piss water," Harlan grunted, slamming the glass on the table and swatting it away from him in case the fumes alone did him harm. Wasn't bad enough they were selling the rotgut, but they were charging a king's ransom for it as well.
"That's probably because it is," Nathan said with a grin before tossing back the contents of his own glass and shuddering. "Jesus, Joseph, and Mary Pickford's momma, that'll put some hair on your chest." The pained look on his face brought a chuckle from Harlan.
Putting the empty glass on the table, Nathan blinked a few times, shuddered again, and called the waiter over to order another. Harlan shook his head. Well, he could hardly let Nathan one-up him. He tossed back the remaining liquid in his glass.
"So how'd you hear about this one?" Harlan wheezed.
"Arty down at Union Square," Nathan replied, his head tilting to one side as he watched the spectacle on stage. Harlan followed his gaze, and upon further inspection, noticed the fella sporting a pencil-thin mustache and tuxedo was a dame, and the beautiful blonde in the flowing lavender gown and twirling a parasol was a fella.
"The blind guy who's always sitting around George Washington?" Harlan's gaze remained on the stage, where the dame was singing "Sweet Lady" to the rosy-cheeked boy.
"He wasn't always blind."
That captured Harlan's attention, and he shot an accusing look at the empty glass on the table. "You mean...."
Nathan's voice turned somber. "It wasn't piss water, I can tell you that much."
"Son of a bitch." It was no secret Harlan didn't give a damn about temperance. That wasn't why he was here. It was about the innocent folks who were paying the price set by a bunch of high-society bastards sitting atop their high horses. Meanwhile, good, hardworking men like Arty were dropping dead, going blind, or being left brutally debilitated by those looking to make it rich. Uncle Sam had picked up his Bible for the cause, but not before carving inside the pages to leave room for his bottle of whiskey. Sometimes Harlan wondered if Nathan was right. Maybe this was one war they would never win, especially when most of their own men were no better than the hoods they put behind bars.
He'd been so lost in thought he didn't realize they had company until Nathan smacked him in the arm and snickered. Harlan's gaze traveled up a deep blue suit, and he noted the slender curves and the purple rose tucked in the front breast pocket. There was a lighter blue shirt and lavender tie. Above that, pouty lips, and even farther up, the biggest, brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. It was the Southern belle who'd been on stage only moments ago, except he had traded in his dress for a three-piece suit. Harlan opened his mouth, and when nothing came out, the kid dropped himself down onto Harlan's lap and threw an arm around his neck.
"Hey, Daddy. How's about wetting my whistle with a little giggle water?" The kid's fingers caressed the stubble on Harlan's jaw before they trailed down to his chest. Instinctively, Harlan put his hand over his pocket watch, just in case. He cast a sideways glance at Nathan, who looked about ready to burst into a fit of laughter. Damn him.
"You know, alcohol's illegal," Harlan told the young man matter-of-factly. That earned him a pleasant laugh and a slap to the chest that nearly knocked the wind out of him. This had to be a first. Not many folks had the grit to get this forward with him, not even the boldest of ossifie
d flappers.
"You slay me," the blond giggled before biting down on his full bottom lip. It was well rehearsed, but no less seductive. He was young, but not overly. Early twenties maybe, with the kind of brightness in his eyes that said he was far too smart to be in a dive like this, which meant only one thing. The kid was a worker.
"Listen, um...."
"Julius," the young man purred. "Wanna dance, handsome? You can bring your meat. The more the merrier." He turned his attention to Nathan and gave him the up and down, approval evident in his gaze. "I don't usually go for petting parties, but I'd be happy to make an exception for you fellas."
Harlan arched an eyebrow at that. "I beg your pardon?"
Julius leaned in and smiled knowingly, his voice low. Not that it was necessary with the brassy jazz number the small orchestra was spewing out. There was also plenty of petting going on around them. No one was going to pay them any mind. They would soon enough, but not for the young man sitting on Harlan's lap.
"Don't worry, handsome. Your secret's safe with me."
Harlan's eyes narrowed, and he caught the hand that was making its way down to his stomach. "All right, that's enough of that."
Julius looked both surprised and tickled. He turned his smile on Nathan, who, damn it all, had yet to say a single word.
"What about you, Sheik? You got plenty of it. How's about you ditch the flat tire"--he nodded at Harlan--"and we have a little fun?"
The humor left Nathan's eyes like it had never been there. Julius shivered, and not in a good way. "Where he goes, I go." Nathan leaned in so only Julius and Harlan could hear, his smile one Harlan was familiar with. Nathan was like a sleek cobra, coiled up and ready to strike. "You look like a right guy, Julius. That's why you still got your fingers. You wanna keep twirling those parasols? Hands off."
Instead of being terrified like Harlan expected, Julius slowly moved his hands away from Harlan and smiled warmly. "You're really stuck on him, huh?"
Nathan sat back in his chair with a shrug, amusement back in his eyes and his lips stretching into a dopey grin. "What can I say? I'm kind of attached to the big lug."
Julius nodded, and Harlan couldn't help but notice how the brightness in the young man's eyes dimmed a little. "Guess I should stick to the Parisian. Fewer husbands there."
Grabbing his shoulder, Harlan pulled the kid close and whispered in his ear, "Get out."
With an endearingly puzzled look, Julius looked from Harlan to Nathan and back. "I wasn't razzing you, if that's what you think."
"No. I mean you gotta go. Now." Harlan took the kid's hand and slipped it inside his suit jacket.
"What are you--" The smile fell off Julius's face as soon as his fingers slid over the cold steel. He swallowed hard. "Prohis?"
Harlan nodded.
"Can I take my friends? There's only the two, I swear. They're good fellas," he pleaded, genuine fear in his big blue eyes. It was no secret how these things usually went. Finesse was hardly a requirement in joining the good fight. Neither was honesty, a clean record, a reasonable temperament, or a dozen other virtues.
"You've got ten minutes," Harlan warned.
Julius nodded and quickly slid off his lap. He started to leave, then hesitated. Turning back, he gave Harlan's cheek a quick kiss before hurrying off.
"That was real sweet, Harley."
"Dry up," Harlan grumbled. When he saw Nathan's tender expression, the heat shot up Harlan's neck and into his face. Embarrassed, he suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands, so he fiddled with his tie. "Ain't nothin'. You know what Mel and the rest of his bad eggs would do if they got their hands on Julius and his friends."
Nathan's expression sobered up considerably. "Yeah, I know."
There was movement by the cloakroom, and Harlan was relieved to see Julius with two other good-looking young men hurriedly putting on their overcoats as they headed for the door. Julius paused, looked through the crowd, and caught Harlan's gaze. With a small smile, he gave Harlan a curt nod and ushered his friends out. There was no guarantee that Julius wouldn't find himself in trouble again, especially working a place like the Parisian, but at least Harlan had managed to keep him safe this one time. It was all he could hope for these days.
"Ready to go to work?" Nathan asked, interrupting his thoughts.
That drew a wicked grin from him. "Aren't I always?"
They stood and made their way through the unsuspecting crowd to the cloakroom. Once they had their overcoats and hats on, they stood in front of the saloon's only exit. Harlan removed his handgun from inside his suit jacket, followed by a black leather wallet. With Nathan ready at his side, Harlan aimed his semiautomatic at the ceiling and fired a round. The blast echoed through the room like an explosion, bringing the music to a halt along with everything else.
He held up his badge and shouted across the room, "Prohibition Unit! This is a raid!"
And then all hell broke loose.
Chapter Two
NATHAN DUCKED as another fist flew right for his head.
When he came back up, he could no longer hold back his laughter. Poor Harlan was struggling with two hot-blooded flappers, both of whom were taking a poke at him from under each of his arms where he had them pinned, and every time one of them moved, a feathered headpiece would whack him in the face. Being the bigger--and meaner-looking--of the two meant Harlan always suffered the brunt of people's aggravated state, and boy oh boy, no one got more aggravated than the dames. At least when a mug tried to sock you, you could happily return the favor, but with the dames, well, all you could do was keep your nose from colliding with their fists.
After Harlan fired his signal, a flood of agents inundated the joint like a tidal wave. Outside, the wagons had their rears to the exit with their doors wide-open and welcoming. Two full wagons drove off, leaving another three. Sure, some folks would get away, but not the one he had his eye on. Nope, Shifty--the saloon's owner--had a wagon reserved especially for him.
Delivering a blow to the mug with the lousy right hook, Nathan made straight for the bar, where Shifty was feverishly stuffing money from the cash register into his pockets. Spotting the chair less than a foot away from his target, Nathan said a quick prayer that the cheap piece of furniture would hold his weight, then ran straight for it. Luckily it did, and he used it to give him the extra boost he needed to jump onto the bar's counter and snatch a fistful of Shifty's collar. With a fierce jerk, he dragged the weasel up and looked him in the eye.
"You've poisoned your last patron, you greasy little bastard."
For weeks, Nathan had been after this lowlife, following up on tip-offs that led to nothing but empty houses, all hooch having been cleared out days before. He'd started to suspect someone at headquarters was helping Shifty, and wondered if he'd ever get his hands on the guy.
Shifty Regal was a lousy two-bit hood responsible for the purchase and distribution of poisoned liquor from the black market, poison that ended up in the glasses of unsuspecting citizens. Despite that, Shifty was small fish, but he swam in a big pond--Christopher Masin's pond.
"I ain't poisoned no one!" Shifty spat out, taking a swing at Nathan, who'd been expecting as much. He caught the man's fist, gave it a brutal twist, and ignoring the satisfying yelp, used his free hand to smack Shifty's face into the hard wood counter, bloodying his nose. Cuffing the bastard, he paused long enough to whisper in his ear.
"Your lies are as rotten as you are. We're gonna have a chat soon, and you're gonna tell me everything there is to know about Christopher Masin."
Just as the words left his mouth, Harlan shouted out a warning.
"Nate! Get down!"
Without hesitation, Nathan rolled off the bar, hitting the floor with a painful thud. A shotgun blast tore through the air seconds behind him, followed by another gunshot. When he looked up, there was a thug on the floor in a pool of his own blood, a shotgun at his side. Scrambling to his feet, Nathan was relieved to see Shifty still alive. The last thing he nee
ded was to lose his golden goose.
"Are you okay?" Harlan asked worriedly, giving him a once-over.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Nathan muttered, dusting off his suit. God only knew what was on that floor. It was probably in his best interest he not find out. "What kind of goddamn idiot fires at an agent in a room swarmed with agents?"
"I think you answered your own question," Harlan replied, taking a look around them. There were fewer people left, but that didn't mean they weren't putting up a good fight, a fight their fellow agents were more than happy to return. At least Mel and his hay-for-brains partner hadn't joined the party, which meant people ended up walking out rather than carried out on gurneys.
"Harley, we gotta get him someplace safe before they try to take him off our hands, permanently."
Shifty gave a snort. Or at least made a noise as close to a snort as possible with a bloodied nose. "If you think I'm gonna say anythin', you're dumber than you look, Prohi. I ain't no rat."
Sometimes it was too easy. Nathan turned to Harlan with a big grin. "Hear that, pal? He just called you dumb."
"Did he now?" Harlan grabbed Shifty with one hand and pulled him off the bar, dangling the boney thug several inches from the ground. Nathan would never admit it, but he thoroughly enjoyed seeing Harlan do things like that. He had yet to see a thug who didn't reconsider his position after coming face-to-face with his partner's six-and-half-feet, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound muscular frame. Not even Dempsey would last two rounds against Harlan Mackay. It sent a little shiver up Nathan's spine, one he disguised quite expertly by leaning against the bar with his arms folded over his chest. He watched Shifty squirm under Harlan's penetrating gaze.
"Did you just call me dumb?"
"That's a load of baloney," Shifty laughed nervously. "Me? Call you dumb? Nah, I wouldn't do that." He twisted, wriggled, and went positively nowhere. It was like watching a kitten dangling from its scruff, except that in no way was it adorable. In fact, Shifty was so far removed from adorable, Nathan was struck with the sudden urge to take a bath.
Harlan's eyes narrowed. "So you were calling my partner dumb?"
"Come on, pal. You tryin' to put the curse on me? I talk and my next residence will be at the bottom of the Hudson."
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