Yorktown Yankees

“What is it exactly that you want me to say in here?”

Robert was still, sitting in the metal chair that came with the package deal of being interrogated. That and the barely visible surroundings, with an empty ashtray in the middle of the table to help add a little bit of flair. Keeping the rule of out of sight out of mind in his head, he kept his eyes glued to a knot on the edge of the table, following it’s edges.

So perfect.

The detective shuffled forward, exhaling out some smoke, and tapping the Red Apple on the tray. “Well, you could always start from the beginning. We need everything.”

They made sure the fans were still, so that his leather jacket would get tight and get him out of his shell. He had been in these rooms before, half a dozen times in Chicago alone, and maybe it was just that the events varied so much that made this time worse. All those times, they were just misdemeanors that came with a slap on the wrist, picking up some trash, and moving back out to his crew a month later to make another mistake, according to the police. Robert’s hands were stuck in between his thighs, shaking manically, while his leg hopped, and the detective’s breath got hotter.

“I already told you damned cops everything.”

The detective gave him a hoarse laugh, pushing him back further in his chair and waiting for the rebuttal of crap that always came with it. Even back in Chicago they did that same thing, the fake out friendship just to make it seem like work was being done. That ashtray was his little vessel, and it was filled to the brim.

All together, he knew Alex should’ve been the one here in this room.

“You told us what we already knew, but not anything before that. Not before three years ago, however, when this all started with us. Before you met Alex Morningstar.”

He clenched his fist, and heard his jacket rustling, the comb poking into his side and about to make him burst out.

“Because that doesn’t matter detective.”

“Don’t lie to me kid. We’ve got three hunks of muscle behind the door ready to bust some answers out of you if the time comes. Now look, you lived in Chicago, correct? Little Italy?” The single fluorescent light above them swung at the sudden movement from the detective. He never got his name, he was just a figure. Robert felt the comb push in further, cutting through the leather and into his Polo.

“Yes.”

“Well why was that? You seem well to do, especially considering your family history.” He was up now, scanning the room for intimidation. It was just all the same, and Robert couldn’t help it. His palms were getting sweaty, his skin feeling like sunburned paper, and the air was thick and heavy.

The detective’s feet were pattering across the linoleum, getting to him.

“It was cheap, and I was broke. My family and I had an unspoken agreement about borrowing money.” Robert finally looked back up. The detective had a huge heap of scruff on his chin, and an old torn up fedora on his receding hairline. If it were any other day, he would’ve made a joke, but just sat smiling, thinking about his future chrome-dome.

“I’m really tired of playing pin the tail on the criminal here kid. Just tell us about you and Morningstar. You guys meeting, you’re drunken antics, just something.” A puff of smoke came out, cutting the light.

Robert cringed in pain from the comb. It had been a gift from Alex, and it hurt just as much as you would’ve thought it could. That damned guy, he really wanted to get under his skin, using whatever method possible. Maybe his hair made him more believable when talking about how he loved watching old films with him, or listening to the new Gillepsie record when counting cash from suppliers spread throughout San Fran.

“I have told you everythi—”

The table shook from the detective’s fists slamming down, the light shinning down to hit the cylinder of his M1917, reflecting right into his red eyes. His claws grasped the edge of his jacket, helping rip of some of the patches he had stuck to the collar, and letting his hand fur brush his neck. The comb shuffled, out of his stomach, and they were face to face, his smoky breath coating him in a film of tobacco. He panted, and was waiting for the gun to be pulled. It seemed brighter than the one hanging between them. The detective’s eyes were dark green.

“I know people like you. We get thirty a week. And I can assure you that they all talk one way or another. Whether it’s through a tube or not, that’s up to you kiddo. Now start talking before my candlestick goes out.”

The walls were closing in, and Robert felt the air thickening. This detective was more than just a cop, he had to have been psychotic. Every station had the one loose cannon to scare bloody murder into their culprit, and this case more than anything. He was the associate of the second biggest mob boss in the East, and here he was twiddling his thumbs over questions they could’ve asked anybody in their little deli shop. He was only picked because he was young, naive, and maybe his jacket. They really liked picking out the ones they could associate with those greasers in Brunswick, maybe even just in the deep recesses of their backwater town. He wasn’t told where he was taken, all he knew is that they were in some town in northern Illinois. The smell of sulfur and waterfalls. It was probably still Chicago, or maybe one of the lake towns.

“You think he would tell me anything? Really? The guy that stood vacant while you shot his henchmen down in the street like a pack of rabid dogs. He found me useful as a lapdog, here to take blame and die in the docks when the clocks struck three. And wouldn’t you know it, he did just that.”

Another smoky chuckle. “You better start making some more sense.”

His charm almost seemed to be reaching back and grabbing him by the collar just like his friend in front. Grabbing the sharp comb from his pocket, jimmying it out from the fabric of his jacket, he started straightening his jet black curls. “We met at a dive-bar out in Little Italy. He was a frequent customer, and I helped bounce a few stragglers out every so often, for a good penny in the pocket. It’s called the Green Door, but you know that, everyone in this station does. Well, we got to talking one night, and wouldn’t you know it, that man is a smooth talker. And I’m talking as smooth as hard candies. You know, those ones that old geezers have?”

“Keep talking.”

“Okay okay, uh, well. He talked me into helping with a deal at the end of town, swiping some gin and joe. After that, I didn’t seem him again until maybe a week later when he showed up again with my cut. We talked for awhile, and within a week, our friendship was blossoming. And by the end of the month, he invited me out to a get together. It was at a small fishing dock, cod and bass mostly connected up with Fox Lake, and he seemed like he was gonna snap his cap. A smoker in one hand, and a briefcase full of money in the other. It scared me what he might do. Most people I saw with guns back then were either vets or cops, and he was neither. I was up to my knees in manure, and he dragged me along all night until three men were left with the fishes off the same shore.”

The detective’s green eyes lit up, and he looked through to the window peeking into the room. It made Robert chuckle under his dry breath. He hadn’t been able to get a drink in the thirteen hours they had him cooped up in that lockbox.

“You’re talking about the Yorktown Yankee case?”

“Is that what they called it? I thought it had something to do with the Red Sox.”

Being completely ignored, he just watched the detective pace around the room for a minute like he had just told him the reason Coca Cola was so good.

And from a greaser nonetheless. Wouldn’t that be something.

Before he knew it, the door shut to the room, and Robert took his eyes off the knot to see he was alone again. The room was back to being a prison, with the only sound being the tick of a clock, marking the time. So, Robert just fell back into the chair, putting the comb back in his pocket, feeling a prick, and readjusting. It was quiet again, and peaceful. He wished it would’ve lasted until his court case, but the door opened as soon as it closed, and the detective came in, followed by an older geezer, wearing a pair of loafers under khakis and a dress shirt, looking like half a zoot suit. He was the one to take the chair, and he was back to looking into a pair of dumbfounded eyes.

“Hello Robert, I’m Chief Earl. I’m going to cut right to the chase, did he ever meet up with a man named Baxter Jackson? Hefty fellow, fat-head with his dough? The kind of guy you know only owns suits. Think hard about this.”

He sure did. Every Saturday night, his feet planted in front of the backroom of the deli shop, all of Alex’s associates playing poker and smoking Cincos right on the other side while joking about their future adventures overseas. Most of them stayed quiet to themselves, downing their drinks just as they walked by him. Some had the occasional scar resting through their eyebrow, or even a dame on their side, but he remembered Baxter over them all. He looked like a human bowling pin, using the same methods to cover his hairline as the detective in front of him.

“What’s the big deal?” He crossed his arms. Based on how the big man acted around his wife, it seemed reasonable that the old pigs had a problem with him. Maybe it was his lack of paying taxes. But that’s not something to ruffle feathers over.

The two cops traded a glance, distraught. It almost worried Robert, but there was nothing trustful about it.

“Three years ago, we started a sting operation in western Chicago. A few old radio workers helped us out, and we were up in the skinny on their whole gun operation. Even a vet, Sergeant Harry Garrison. They were all set up, until Baxter’s crew rolled up, the Yorktown Yankees. The Yorktown Yankee case was a dull, and left two policemen dead, including our previous chief before me, and Garrison. We knew Morningstar and Baxter both had a part in it, but until today, we haven’t been able to nail either. Until you kid.”

Robert sighed, and shut up for good, letting the sound of the birds finally come through.

“What do you want from me? I had no part in that, I was just the lookout.”

“In exchange for protection from those on trial, and complete pardons on all previous crimes, we only ask you for confirmation on those involved and to testify against Morningstar.” The chief said, lighting his own Red Apple.

Robert just waited for his own mind to work through it, and sat under the light. It sat perfectly still, and he pulled out his comb, making his decision and wondering about his new identity, if that was a thing. It seemed to be so.

California was his first idea.