Money and Malts

[Light Ice]

Cormac had just murdered three people and was glad to be back at the cathouse that was now his home. The building resided in the lower quarter amidst the densely populated houses and bustled with activity. It annoyed him, mildly, that there was never much quiet at night. Now, more than ever, he'd have liked it best to have come home to a nearly empty house. He'd have preferred it the way it was in the early afternoon when seldom a John came by.



He'd come in the back, as ever, and went down the narrow stair by the kitchen. It kept him out of the way of the girls and off the floor. These, and other little considerations, were made and kept. They were the slight and small ways that he could be more than just a thug whose practice was as much a nuisance to business as it was a necessity. That strange contradiction was one he was too familiar with. It seemed he'd spent the better part of his life existing as some kind of necessary evil. It'd worn on him until the war. He'd always wanted to be a gentleman of some kind. A man of respect and principle; he'd hoped. Then, with the guts and blood and mud of the Great War, he'd accepted that his lot in life was a great deal more utilitarian. And useful.



When you lived a life of violence it was wise to harbor within you a great deal of necessary evil.



Still, all that aside, he'd no desire to be slovenly. The shoes he carried were weighted with filthy snow and mud. They were wrapped in the ruins of his jacket so that they didn't drip across the floor. Above him, sounding steadily through the sturdy walls, he could hear Leo Wood. It was the sound of business. In his head he could see the girls with their long-fingered hands buried in the lapels of their next John. It was all a big party upstairs. All the time. That was the sales floor of the joint and it wasn't his scene.



Not that he had anything against the business. He was a patron on the weekend. A man had needs. Still, the hustle and bustle didn't suit him. It never had. In a way he'd been glad to have divorced himself from New York City. It'd never had come to mind to fall into this line of work again if it hadn't been for the principle of the matter. That'd gotten under his skin and turned the entire affair into a deeply personal one.



Slightly warped, Cormac's door wasn't an entirely quiet one. It fought him until he committed strength to it, forcing it open, and swinging wide to reveal the glorified broom closet that'd become his own. He missed his loft. The hotel. He missed having a closet filled with suits and shoes. Still, he'd had less than this at home. It was only by the grace of God that he had so much, again. It was with that in mind he'd become partial to the spartan quarters that had room for his narrow bed with faded brown blanket and white linens and little else. From the bed's edge was four feet of empty space and then a copper tub against the opposite wall. He'd a small sink and faucet with a mirror against the wall.



He tossed the jacket and boots in the corner to his right, glad to be free of them.



There'd been a great deal more blood than he'd expected. Some men, for whatever reason, cut more easily than others. Cormac considered his hands. The swollen, gnarled shape of his knuckles and his thick, crooked fingers. They were ugly like his father's had been. Uglier, really. Several were crossed with small scars where they'd caught teeth or floor.



Maurice was sharp. He knew the right places to scratch. The warehouse was meant to harbor milk but it hired negro men to handle the night shift. There wasn't anything in town that Maurice didn't know about. Oftentimes, he'd know it long before it happened. It was how he knew that the warehouse didn't harbor milk and that there was one Italian boy running the shop while the negros handled the lifting. Maurice had managed to get one of the negro boys to leave a door open.



Easy.



Still, he wore the man now. The smell of him tainted every breath and his skin was crawling under the familiar feel of slowly drying blood. Cormac never cared much for that part of the job. He found his suspenders and pushed them off his broad shoulders and started to let the tub fill. To the girl's in the joint he was a haunt. To the two men that mattered; an asset.



The entire arrangement worked well-enough as it was for now. It'd get him closer to where he needed to be. In the end, though, the trio would have to do more than push a little booze. The world stretched out open. Fresh. New. Or so, in the very least, it seemed to him. Perspective was a beautiful thing. Nothing, that he could remember, had ever focused him more than nearly dying. Cormac peeled the ruin of his shirt away and learned for the first time that some of the blood was his own. The man's knife had caught him in the side and skittered across his ribs, flaying flesh and failing to find a space to wedge itself. The fabric from his shirt had soaked into the wound and peeled from it now amidst a fresh run as clots tore away. It was shallow.



It didn't hurt much.



Naked, he flexed his battered fingers. The water welcomed him and he closed his eyes.

( The OOC can be found here. http://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?t=840651 )

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“And until the working class, yes, we the working man, we who uphold the floors that the rich stand on, we who water the ground with our tears, we who have written the history of this country in our blood, have our interests reflected by the very businesses we work for, there will be no peace!”

Thunderous applause followed. The speaker mopped at the reddened flesh of his forehead, and drank long from a glass poised beside his podium. Though she clapped like all of the others, by the arch of her smooth black brows it was clear that something still nagged at her. Something that didn’t sit right. No, it wasn’t the fact that she was the only woman there. Nor was it the fact that she was also a woman of color - her smooth brown skin shone darkly under the dim lights. “Brown” wasn’t quite the right word. No, her color escaped such simple words as “brown” or “chocolate”. “Coffee” might be close to it, but it was too flat to be applied to the living warmth of her skin. If anything was truly “black” on her (visibly, at least), it would be the meticulously conked and curled hair that she wore up and away from her face. The way she held herself, idly fanning herself (though it was the depths of winter, small places like this could be cramped and unseasonably warm) with a mock Chinese fan stated her race and gender as simply as one would announce the sky was blue - without any cause for alarm or a second glance.

No, what made her brows raise and her carefully painted mouth turn down was what the man didn’t say. Nothing about women, nothing about blacks. Hadn’t her people built the country as well as any Irish fresh off the boat? She remembered the poor plots of dirt and high sugar cane fields that she’d left behind years ago. And here he was, telling her about how the blood, sweat, and tears of factory workers had build the country.

It was hard for her not to just laugh.

Listening to the ebb of applause like a heartbeat, she waited until it slowed before she raised her hand. “So,” her voice was husky, flavored and laced with the faintest of Southern drawls. She had worked long and hard to sculpt a professional voice. It grew tiresome, but it was the only way that some people could actually hear her. “You neglected to mention the plight of women, stuck at home, among the horrors of the birthing beds. Surely there can be no more commendable profession among us than of raising children. Why,” and she let a bit of the accent sit and hang on the “why.” There was something about Northerners that they adored the color of the South without being reminded constantly of what the south stood for, “I believe all women should be given the highest military awards for merely dealing with teething and the endless round of diapers. Have any among you ever dealt with a colic-y child? Dreadful business, I assure you.”

She was going to be polite and play the more gentle card. If she started directly in on the sorry state of being a negro in this nation, she would lose nearly the entire audience. A nervous ripple of laughter went through the audience, fringed with a few expressions of actual mirth and incredulity.

“Ah, Miss Maveaux,” said the speaker, a smile spreading across his face. Nimbly dancing across the lines of patronization and genuine affection, it cut lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, “I was wondering if we would have the opportunity of hearing your melodious voice this session. Gentlemen,” and he stretched his arms out across the smoky gloom of the room, “For those of you who are new to our meetings, this is Miss Maveaux, one of the most upstanding Socialists in the city, and a person of merit.” It was also no small secret that she co-owned one of the most successful brothels in town. If you wanted a good time, girls who were pretty and would make you feel loved for however long you paid for, you went to Bug Eyed Betty’s. But, knowing your audience gauged your ability as a speaker. The regulars were used to her, the newcomers shocked and elbowed into silence as she spoke.

With a demure nod of her head and a well placed wave of her fan, she smiled, her full lips sliding effortless from almost un-nervingly white and straight teeth, enviable and miraculous by the standards of the 20s. “Mr. Haley is so kind to introduce me, but not so kind in ignoring my question.” The smile she flashed reached her eyes, and a few brave souls chuckled at her audacity.

“Well, Miss Maveaux, once the men are taken care of, the women shall follow suit. The working man is the lifeblood of this country. If we revive him, then we will revive the entire body!” Haley’s voice rose with each word, almost as if he wanted to shout her question out of oblivion. As the applause surrounded the room again, Rita smiled graciously, clasped her hands, and played the demure belle.
__________

The dance was always the same. She never quite got the answer that she sought. How the party had fallen! During the war, that was when things were good, when Debs was in charge. But time changed everything. The world was changing. Sometimes, she had to wonder, if her life would be any different if she was somewhere else - like Russia.

But it was a pipe dream. If it wasn’t her color (how could anyone despise it, she often mused), then it was her gender. Funny; you go through life being judged solely on your color and what happened to lay between your legs. Even funnier was the idea that men honestly thought that they ran the world. No, the world revolved around money and pussy - and if you had both, you were quite the contender.

Rita was lucky enough to have both, but used the former exclusively and the latter as the situation called for it. She hated the idea of having to screw her way to the top, but she had carefully selected who she slept with and what rewards she reaped from it. Far from being being a hooker turned madame, she had luxuriated in the warmth and personality that only Louisiana had. Things she did there made this possible - “this” being Bug Eyed Betty’s. Before she entered, she always stopped just to look at the building. Almost modest in its appearance, every red brick stood for some sacrifice, for some minor victory or minor defeat. This building was a symbol - and she never let herself forget it.

Much like the rough hewn Mick, she slipped into the building from the back. Funny, she took such pride with strolling into segregated places from the entrance, reeking of money, class, and good humor and in her own establishment, she slunk round the back. Largely, it was because she didn’t like to be bothered after her “meetings.” She liked the time to sit and digest what she’d heard, what questions she wanted to ask at the next one. Besides, Eva was a much better social face - one that could be easier to handle. Rita knew that she was a severe looking woman, the type that could burn holes into the wall just by thinking of nothing. It took time to get to know her; until then, everyone walked on pins and needles. That was bad for business.

Nonetheless, she needed to put in a brief appearance. Climbing up the staircase to her room, she thought about what she needed to wear. None of that flapper foolishness - she had been blessed with too much to bind and pinch and strap down so she could fit the loose garments. And when one of the girls had suggested a bob, she had to stop herself from slapping the poor thing. Really, a bob, the very idea.

 

[AmbrosiaCaress]

It was a wonder she slept at all. Just the idea of sleeping a full 8 hours, undisturbed, that would be heaven. But she had not done that in, what.. months? Years? Her entire life? That is certainly what if felt like. Perhaps she had indulged in that luxury as a child. Perhaps. But since the time she turned 13, unlucky 13, a full night's sleep was gone forever.

First it was her step father. A filthy man who drank much too much, and worked much too little. Eva detested even thinking about that time. It disgusted her.

Then, once she was 17, and out of that house, her lack of sleep was 2 fold. She worked as a waitress, well that term was loose, she slung hash mostly, at this all night diner. It was dirty, it was poor, the food was awful for the most part. But she was allowed to keep her tips. Between that, and her series of boyfriends, who seemed to think that sex every night and/or day was needed, and that they deserved it. Deserved it her ass. Fucking losers, all of them. They did nothing for her, yet expected her to lay on her back, legs spread, at the snap of their fingers.

It was then she met Rita. One late night at the diner. It was Rita that taught her that she was worth something. It mattered not that she was white and Rita was black. To Eva, Rita was the epitome of class and decorum. Just the way she conducted herself. Her self esteem, her confidence, her intelligence, her beauty. It was Rita that showed Evangeline, what being a real woman was all about. And it had nothing to do with laying on one's back with one's legs spread at the whim of a man.

Some thought there was a strange affection between Rita and Eva. Perhaps there was, a deep bond of friendship.

But even meeting Rita had not solved Eva's sleep patterns.

In reality, that was a good thing. Considering...

Evangalene was the "house mother" or more like the "house big sister" really, to the girls. Early on, Eva realized these girls, some who were her own age, some younger, and even a couple who were a bit older, did not need, nor want, a mother. And Eva was not really the mother type. They needed a friend, a confidant. Someone who would listen, someone who would watch their backs, someone they could trust. Rita had known that Eva was the perfect one to fill that role, that need. And, it was another step in showing her that women could use sex for their own gain. Sex for their own pleasure. Sex to make money.

Eva was also the "face" of Bug-Eyed Betty's most of the time. Rita was the voice, with the politicos, law, the investors, and sometimes, the clients, if said client were particularly important, and there were several of those. Eva, was the face, the body, perhaps one would say the sex of Bug-Eyed Bettys. Not that she was ever for sale, but one could drip sex, taste sex, desire sex, just by looking, and looking at Eva was always a perfect, beautiful, and erotic, first impression of this particular establishment. First off, Eva was white. Again that mattered not to her, but it apparently did matter to others. With her mane of red hair and golden sage eyes, she was quite the beauty, and was sometimes mistaken for one of the working girls. That is until she set the record straight. "oh no no no... Sir. I can assure you, along with Miss Maveaux, I own Bug-Eyed Betty's. There are a bevy of beautiful girls for you to choose from, I am not one of them."... she would pause, blushing... "but I do thank you for the compliment".. Not that she saw it as a compliment. But she was always polite and cordial to the clientel, always! No matter how disgusting they were. They, the clients, were her and Rita's, and the others of course, life blood. And that blood... was green...green as in money....

This night was like most others. Eva never slept while the girls were working. So that meant being up the majority of the night. She would sleep a couple of hours early in the morning, before getting up to supervise the cleaning and prepping of the rooms for the next evening. She would then sleep again, early afternoon, when the house was at it's quietest. Most of the girls were asleep at that point. Most of the cleaning was done. Food was cooking for an early dinner before the clientel once more showed up. If the night were especially slow, and that did happen from time to time, not often, but once in a while, if the weather was especially foul, Eva would actually nap when it was actually night time. But that was few and far between.

But as stated before, it really was a wonder that she ever slept.

Things were in full swing this night, all rooms were occupied. The "great room" where the clients mingled with the girls, and awaited for a more private setting, was bustling. Music was playing, drink was being passed around, laughing, giggling, the occasional sound of a slap on a backside heard.

Eva was making her way around the room, keeping check on who was with whom, for how long, and when to send the bouncer, this night it was a young man named Claude of all things, to let a client know that time was up. Busy nights like this, would keep Eva on her toes. But she was good at this. This is what she did. It left Rita free to conduct all the political business that came with owning an establishment such as this.

Pausing, the prettiest smile warming her pink lips as she glances at Polly, one of the girls, cute with blonde curls, who stopped on the way to the bar to complain about the client she was "stuck with" this particular night. "He's fat, and he smells awful" she complained as she picked up 2 more drinks, one for her to sip, the other for him to drink. Both Rita and Eva preferred that the girls not drink, but sometimes, the clients insisted. In that case, the girls would either sip, or drink a watered down version of whatever it was the client wanted them to drink.

"Ahh, but I believe..." Eva paused, glancing up and over to where this particular client sat... "that is Mr. Hall, the owner of several theaters here and in New York. You always wanted to be in a broadway show, keep him happy, and you may get your chance, Polly"

The girl beamed, her smile lighting up her face. Eva didn't believe for a minute that Mr. Hall was even remotely interested in Polly for anything other than bedding her. That was what they all wanted. Why else come to Bug-Eyed Betty's. But Polly now forgot all about how big he was, or how he smelled, and he would be one happy Client at the end of his time with her. That, was what mattered. And Eva could see how it all worked out as Polly returned to him, sitting herself down on his lap, he lacing a hand up beneath her skirt.

All was running smoothly for a busy night. And, glancing at the time, Eva surmised that Rita would be returning soon. Rita and Macky. In fact, where was Macky? That thought crossed her mind and, after one more look around the room, all running like a well oiled machine, Eva made her way downstairs, to see if their Enforcer had indeed returned.

She paused as she looked at the floor that lead to his room... droplets of blood staining the wood. Shaking her head, she paused for a moment before knocking gently.

"Macky, it's me, Eva. Are you ok? Or do I need to bring the bandages... again?"

 

[dryfter]

William Ellingsworth sat quietly at a private table despite the carousing and the frivolous flirting around him. How long had he hated places just like this one? Debauchery and drunkenness on open display......and yet......as soon as his "partner" arrived.....

Then the talk of how to grow this quaint little cathouse into something truly formidable would begin. That was why he was here. There wasn't a whore in the room who could catch his eye, or so he liked to convince himself. More than one gentle caress and soft flirt went completely ignored, as the Englishman pored over parchment and pen. There was pitifully little left of his business, but he still had his ledgers.....and if he had those, he had his previous business contacts.....and if he had those......

He wasn't half as dead as his rivals made him out to be.

It didn't take long for most of the girls to accept his silence and social cues for what they were.....a desire to be left alone. As recent as five years ago, he would have never been seen in a place like this. The parties at his private manor house were more than adequate.....and the women were a challenge. Here, the only challenge was trying to figure out what they wanted to get from the act.....and most just wanted money.....as much as they could lay hands on.

That too....was now in short supply. But hopefully not for long.

"Here it is....Strachovsky.....Moscow. Reliable man. Must remember to send him a box of Cuban cigars for Christmas this year."

He was poring over his old books, transcribing names and contact information meticulously kept over the years onto paper that he fully planned to present to his new business partner. Sure, alcohol was getting harder to come by.....and a place such as this needed it like lifeblood if it were going to survive. Not that he had originally ever intended to buck the prohibition laws.....but then again.....it had been his morals and his adhering to the law that had ended him up where he was now.

"Quinn O'Riley, Seamus Cavanaugh.....Ireland and Scotland."

A soft smile crossed his face as William paused for a moment, lost in the memory of the last time his feet had trodden so close to home. And Dublin was a far walk from Liverpool. Still....a pair of good friends always sped up the journey.

His plan had been simple, and easily accepted because of its simplicity. Moonshine production had boomed under the federal law, and alcohol had never seen better days when it came to being used for money making. That was where he had erred. By refusing to run booze covertly like his competitors....not only had he denied himself a ripe source of income, but a valuable negotiating piece as well. As things stood.....most of his old transporters were now firmly in the pockets of the men who had crushed his business.

But.....if he couldn't get locals to transport goods.....

William grinned to himself. Then it was time to look outside of the harbor. It helped matters that most of the local distillaries were awful....at least to his refined taste. These Americans would drink anything it seemed.....but the two owners here.....they sometimes had very important, influential people here. It happened more oft than not these days.

So he had taken it upon himself to turn a brothel previously known as a gin joint.....into one of the more upscale places in town. Starting first with the alcohol. Not your run of the mill Tennesee Jack Daniels....which burned his throat like acidic sandpaper the one time he had dared try it. Many of the local moonshines could be even worse, but they got the job done.

No. He wanted the finest liquors that Europe could put forth. Wines from France and Spain to fill Madame Maveaux's deepest cellars, German lagers, English brandy, Scottish stout and the whiskey that those Celtic nations had spent centuries perfecting. Surely the quality alone had the potential to put his....no.....now their rivals to shame? And if he could corner the market before any one of them suspected what he was up to? That he was more than the down and out millionaire he had once been? That he had sniffed around at the potential for revenge for the last three years of his life as they slowly ground him into the dirt?

When his head lifted from the pages, the scowl that had shown on his face was gone, replaced by an intensity that had gotten him to the top once before and so help him God, it would again!

All he needed now.....was his partner.....who would hopefully have an answer or two for the things he couldn't figure out.

 

[fr33ks33k]

The night was dark and there was a bit of a chill to the air as Maurice came in through the front door of Bug-eyed Betty's. A few people gave him odd looks as he readjusted the collar on his coat, finally deciding to just shed it and drape it over one arm. The atmosphere was buzzing, johns and the girls doing the same old song and dance. One pretending to be important, the other pretending to be interested. It really suited some of them. Maurice was more interested in knowing if Macky had made his man, or men, at the warehouse. A few choice words and a promise of better pay for one of the black boys hauling booze in that supposed milk storage had been enough to get the lowdown on what was really going on. Brothas had to look after each other, especially 'round here.

He dressed well with what he could afford, which was a good deal more than the average black man in Atlantic City, or anywhere for that matter. It drew him some unwanted attention, but he never overdid it. Getting too fancy would be nice to show the Man he didn't belong under his thumb, but would likely get him dirty looks from both sides of the table. He straightened his tie as he continued working through the evening crowd of Betty's. A few of the working girls tried to offer him a good time, but he politely declined. They obviously didn't know who he was and it was better to leave it that way.

At one of the private booths, Maurice saw William scrawling something onto parchment paper and looking very determined. It was not particularly common for a black man to go sit with a white man, even in a place like this, but that was just where Maurice headed.

"You writin' a novel there, Willie?"

Maurice slid into the booth across from William and set his coat aside.

"So, you had somethin' you wanted to talk about? I still gotta see Macky about them boys I had him see to. If he took care of business, which I know he did, then we'll have another nice place to stash our supply, once we get it in."

Maurice leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest to listen to what William had to say. It was still hard trying to think of him as a partner. Especially when he talked with that Limey accent. He sounded up himself without trying, but if there was gonna be any hope for his people to get ahead in this rat race, it would have to be through the underground. Just like that railroad that took em to freedom, this would take em to prosperity. If it took off.

It was a big if, but a risk that had to be taken to have any chance at the reward.

 

[dryfter]

"You writin' a novel there, Willie?"

For a moment the pen froze upon the parchment, though he recognized the voice well enough to not startle and mar his near perfect penmanship. Glancing up, the Englishman's grin was startlingly wide and good natured.

"Bout time you showed up, mate. Have a seat."

For a black man, Maurice was particularly well mannered. Perhaps that was one of the many reasons working with him had come so easily. Their enemies could think of him what they wanted, just as they were wont to do to him as well. William Ellingsworth knew better.

"So, you had somethin' you wanted to talk about? I still gotta see Macky about them boys I had him see to. If he took care of business, which I know he did, then we'll have another nice place to stash our supply, once we get it in."

"Aye, wanted to speak to you about that very supply. I think it would take very little to get in touch with some old contacts of mine who've been into the business of....illegality....far longer than we have. Of course, that's mostly because alcohol isn't illegal in their countries."

If it was even possible, the limey's grin widened just a little further.

"If we can get them on board, I can promise you finer quality spirits than our competitors are running right now in their make shift distillaries. Fortunately, I'm still on quite good terms with most of them."

Running a nervous hand through his hair, William pushed the list of names and nationalities across the table to his partner.

"However, we have a problem. All these quality goods will be coming from overseas. Which means very little if we can't secure a harbor. I can grease a few palms down at the docks, the harbor master will look away, but I can't say the same about our competitors should they get wind of the shipment."

 

[fr33ks33k]

"So you wanna hustle in some foreign booze and sell that?! Damn man, that sounds like a plan to me. If you can get the fancy drinks, people would pay top dolla for that. Lots of scratch for that, Willie..."

The list that was slid to him was hard to read, especially since Maurice didn't exactly know how. He could cobble together the words well enough, but most of the things written on the page were mumbo jumbo to him. He understood whisky, rum, brandy, but that was about it. The names were completely alien. He looked over it for what he deemed a long enough consideration period then slid the paper back to William.

"Yeah, all that stuff sounds better than the 'shine people are gettin' now. That stuff'll catch you on fire, you ain't careful around it."

Maurice thought more about this part of the plan, sitting forward to look William in the eye. It was going to be more risky than originally planned. Not only would they have to smuggle in liquor from overseas, they'd have to keep it safe once it got here while getting the word out that their stuff was better than any other supplier. Keeping those other bastards off their case while they made a name for themselves was a tall order for a couple of upstarts. There would have to be runners, guards, alibis. All those things took a bit of time to set up. Maurice could handle it, but definitely would need some assistance.

"Ok, game plan is to get a few of my brothers from down the way to play the muscle. How we actually bringin' it in? I mean, we got a milk warehouse, so maybe get 'em to send the stuff over in milk bottles? That might keep some of the heat off us, 'specially after it gets here and we're stowing it away over in there."

Of course, they didn't exactly have the milk warehouse yet, as such. Maurice still had a few people to talk to, get the right men to step up as overseers, get the right people to handle watching the place. But that would come tomorrow.

"I like the idea of gettin' better stock, keepin' it on the sly. Maybe we still sell the stuff everyone else has and offer to just a few people for a pretty penny for the good shit? Lots to think bout, Willie. I gotta go find Macky. I'll be back up in a bit."

Maurice slid out of the booth and headed to the back of the cathouse. He just saw the back of Miss Eva's head disappearing down the stairs. If she was going down to Macky's room, he would have to wait a while. So, he grabbed a drink and leaned against the counter in the kitchen.