Pops always said, 'if you do your part then the world would do its deed for you.'
"Thank you so much," a woman was near tears, holding onto the relief provisions, "thank you so much."
Her children were clamoring to her skirt, staring at the food, eager as they tugged at her sleeves, begging to go home and eat.
"No problem, miss. It's a pleasure to serve," I smiled and she bowed her head for a moment, blessing me and bidding good luck before scurrying off as another came to receive.
A lot of people were hit when the stock market crashed—many lost their jobs and houses.
Each Christmas got bleaker as the catalogues in the mail contained more and more 'Christmas Guns' for the mourning father who couldn't provide for his family.
People banked on their misery and struggle.
"You're welcome," Bertolt was beside me, smiling as another woman grinned, clinging to her food with tears as her children, too, cried to be fed immediately.
Bertolt's eyes kept glancing through the window, though, to the people across the street.
They wore fine trench coats and dresses, but their cheeks were gaunt and their eyes hollow, watching the relief camp distribute to those in need.
"Reiner, why don't they come in, too?" He quietly asked as I packaged a box with the essentials and gave it to the next.
"Pride," I said because all they would do was watch, held fast by their sense of pride that they were above begging for food and water.
The small station near the shipyard was made into a temporary Relief Station for those struggling. It was optional for the officers to participate—most of it was ran by the operator gals in the main building—but I thought it was good to give back to the community.
My father and his father believed in the honest of hard work and kindness was the rule of thumb for success. All the men before me were part of the police force, working hard to bring peace and justice to all.
It was only right that I followed their steps—I felt the very calling they did, too, for this line of work.
"Ah, Mister Braun," the captain came in, smoking on his stogie and pulling it out to flourish in his hand, gesturing to the station, "it's all aces, baby, aces—look at this. What a view!"
By the time he got to me his head was only to my chest.
"Mr. Springer, how's the wife?" I asked, shaking his hand.
"Swell! Ol' Sash has taken to the house real well—she makes the meanest steak," he grinned.
"Good," I nodded, withdrawing my hand when he was happy with the greeting.
"What brings you here, sir?" Bertolt asked. I inwardly sighed.
Bertolt was never good with pleasantries.
"Ah, yes, yes," Connie waved his question off, "come with me."
I watched him, wondering why he'd bring us out and about—he even was hiding his buzzer underneath his coat as we left, leaving the rest of the relief to the women.
"Y'see, we were gettin' some info from this grifter," we walked down the street and drifted off into an alleyway—down its dank and pungent stone we saw police officers surrounding a man on the ground, bloodied and bruised but alive.
"Grifter got tired of competition, I think—we'll get them another day since they traded some valuable ear for us to leave them alone for a bit." Connie threw his smoke down into a puddle and stood above the man, staring at him.
His suitcase was right by him, pried open and broken with white substance everywhere.
"This guy been selling Cadillacs since he crossed the Ol' pond," Connie sighed, nodding to his other officers to leave.
They left and Bertolt's eyes were just eyeing the stuff.
I bumped his shoulder with mine and he glanced up at the captain as Mr. Springer turned to look at us.
"The whole relief station? It was a good excuse for the civilians to overlook the extra men around here. This guy," Connie squatted down to hold the man's chin, shifting it left to right, examining him closely, "he didn't see it coming and we got our perp."
"But this is bigger than just catchin' small fry."
"Of course, sir," I agreed because his logic was right on the mark.
"Look at the undamaged merch."
When Bertolt leaned down, I shook my head, making him pull back as I analyzed it myself.
On each packet was a waltzing beast and woman with the initials D. T.
"Dancing Titan, huh?"
It was one of the bigger gangsters around, selling alcohol, owning speak-easies, and dishing out the local supply of heavy drugs. They've been chiseling at New York since the start of the Prohibition.
"Yep. They're getting cocky, Braun," he sighed.
"And what are we supposed to do?" Bertolt asked.
Bertolt was my childhood friend—we played baseball and all in the old fields with other kids—but his lack of patience for small talk would be the end of him. His fingers were jittery and he shakily pulled out a cigarette, striking it and puffing nervously.
"You two just got into the force—new faces and all. My other men be known around these parts and all. We need someone for a recent assignment of utmost importance, yeah? Well, c'mon."
Connie stood back up, pausing.
"Bertolt, get the dogface. Reiner, get the cadillacs. The stuff that's ripped—stamp it out or find some water to get rid of it. Don't need no kids thinkin' it be candy." Connie sighed, leaving them.
"I will be waiting in the flivver."
With that the captain left us with the work.
I was quickly and efficiently throwing the packets back into the suitcase, cleaning away the stray cocaine from wherever it might've been.
"You need to be careful," I whispered to Bertolt who was patting the unconscious man down.
"It's hard to understand Mr. Springer, huh? He's trying too hard to be the 'bee's knees.'" Bertolt lightly jested.
"Y'hear me?" I said again and Bertolt stopped.
He glanced over towards me, but his eyes were locked on the cocaine.
He was getting that face again—the desperation, the tiredness, and then the defeat.
"Y-Yeah."
We were always friends, but Bertolt got in with the wrong people before—he tried all sorts of things and got addicted to it. He had been two years strong but I knew he was still a man of the Earth and such things would always tempt him.
Just like all those women and hole-in-the-walls.
"Up we go," I picked up the suitcase and we left to whatever Captain had in store for us.
-x-x-x-
"This case is going to be led by one of our private investigators," Connie murmured, slapping the manila folder down, spewing its contents upon the coffee-stained desk.
"But our main catch here is this looker—Historia Reiss," he fished a stack of pictures from the pile, revealing a beautiful, small blonde that had the softest of eyes and smiles.
"She's blonde, blue eyes like clear skies, boys—" he nodded, "I had the pleasure to see her a few times at the balls. Always good girl."
"Has she gone missing?" Bertolt asked and Connie nodded.
"Where was she last seen?" I asked, taking the pictures and staring.
She was so beautiful.
"She was in jail before disappearing."
"Jail?!" I felt myself gawk.
"Yeah. Dig this, Braun—her father and her were leaving an upper-crust party—yeah?—and one of our boys pulled them over and found a stash of drugs. This was about five years ago."
"Wait, how old is she?"
"Read the paper, Braun," Connie nodded to the documents Bertolt had.
"She was sixteen at the time." Bertolt told me.
Sixteen and went to prison?
"Why would someone like her have the drugs?" Bertolt asked.
Connie and I glanced at him.
"She ain't the type to be holdin'," Connie stated the obvious.
"So…that means…?"
"It means she took the fall for ol' daddy." Connie flushed out more pictures, showing her in jail.
"Ol' dad must've felt bad because he broke her out a year later." He showed her leaving.
But not alone.
"Who's this?"
"Ymir," Connie spoke and I shot him a surprised look.
"Yeah… It seems he felt guilty to get her out, too, before she was the big-shot we know today. Historia made a little, bad friend."
"How could Rod agree to this?" No doubt Historia was a sweet girl who tried to be friends with even the sourest of people.
And it finally bit her.
"Like I said, Rod had no idea what hell he unleashed until Historia disappeared a week after being out of the slammer."
"Has she been seen since then?" Bertolt asked.
"Of course she has," I sighed. It would've been four years of a cold case if she wasn't.
"Since then she had been seen all over New York with her gal pal," Connie showed more, "at the balls, speak-easies, and what not. The thing is, though, boys, is that she has never once been seen alone."
The pictures showed Ymir with her arm around Historia at all times.
"She's a crossdresser?" Bertolt whispered, pointing to Ymir.
"Looks like it."
"Confused ol' thing." Connie snickered.
"Anyways, the thing is—we think she's Ymir's moll."
"What?" Bertolt asked, caught off guard.
Now, it was strange to find people liking their own kind. Mostly happened in people who were mentally cracked up or had something happen to make them think wrong.
Most doctors agreed it was from bad parenting and the new sicknesses.
"Not by choice, though, right?" I asked.
Historia was too good for it.
"Definitely not by choice."
"Now, Reiss can't get close or get anyone in—Ymir got it thick, y'see, and knows when people infiltrate… except now."
Someone came from the corner of the dark room, making the two of us jump.
"This is the spook whose been in since day one," Connie nodded to the woman in the coat. She wore men's clothes as well.
Bertolt's face was red at the realization.
"Private Investigator Annie Leonhardt." She didn't offer a shake of hand as she stood behind Mr. Springer.
"Now, she'll be the one to cover ground with you guys. You're new recruits and you must abide to all her words, y'hear?"
A woman in the field?
That was unheard of but it made perfect sense.
Ymir would have to worry about a man infiltrating, but she'd never expect a pretty little thing.
"I-I-It's nice to meet you!" Bertolt was the first to clamor, hesitantly reaching out to shake her hand.
"Charmed." She shook his and didn't budge until Connie waved for her input.
"If you read the tale of the Beauty & the Beast, you will remember how the Beauty was held captive and eventually grew to love the Beast." Annie commented, shuffling the unsettled papers into organized stacks.
"I believe this is the same as Historia to Ymir. She seems to be starting to love her chains and Rod Reiss is begging us to get her out of there before it's too late." She murmured, happy with the cleanness and went back to her previous frozen state.
"So… we're here to retrieve Historia Reiss?"
"Yes but to do so without conflict." Connie barked, firm.
"What, why no conflict?" Bertolt finally asked a questioned that begged to be answered.
"Think about it—Ymir owns all of the slums and New York's sinful groups. If we took her Beauty away, what will the Beast do?"
"She would rip everything till she got to her…?"
"Exactly. If we can slip her away before she notices, we can get her to safety and finally get this dog on a leash and send her to the pound for good." Connie smiled.
"Is it clear?"
"Yes, sir." We nodded.
"Good." Annie commented, closing her eyes and adjusting her overcoat.
"We will begin early tomorrow by the docks. Leave your badges at home."
Leonhardt passed us but stopped short.
"Oh, also, Mister Braun, is it?"
"Yes?" I replied, frowning.
"Don't let your feelings get in the way."
A/N:
'Christmas Guns' were infamously placed in catalogues during the Holiday seasons of the Great Depression. They were darker suggestions for the man of the household to purchase who couldn't afford to give his family so he could take the 'easy way out' instead of dealing with the humiliation.
Also, there will be spots of 1930s slang sprinkled into this fic.
Anyways, I hope my usual YumiKuri/YumiHisu readers stay with me on this piece. It will be similar to Merci.