Hello everyone! I've had this fic brewing in my head for about six months now, and finally decided to start writing it. As a student and amateur historian of the Prohibition era and huge fan of anything from that captivating time, I fell in love with Lackadaisy. I knew from the start I was going to write a fic or two, and this one went through many mental revisions and little notes penned on a truckload of scraps of paper before I started typing it out. Before we begin, I feel I need to give you few warnings. This story is dark. Like borderline grimdark. It has all the usual M-Rated stuff you'd expect in a Lackadaisy story; cursing, violence, alcohol, smoking, the works. But it also has elements from the Prohibition era that you don't see in alot of works...a grittiness and ugliness most decent folks don't want to see on the silver screen. Be prepared for murder, PTSD, mental illness, racist slurs, rampant gun violence and trauma. You have been warned.
The main character is based on a few real people from that period. I drew inspiration from Verne Miller, Machine Gun Jack McGurn, Alvin Karpis and John Dillinger for him, and though his abilities seem a little over the top at times, I assure you, there were guys like him back then. So without further ado, let's get into it. Enjoy.
Chicago, 1928
The warehouse sat by the waterfront, dingy amber light shining through a few of its upper windows like dirty chimneys on old oil lamps. Having been originally built sometime in the 1800's instead of matching the neighboring storehouses constructed in the recent boom years, it looked incongruously run-down by day. On an inky night like this, with a thin haze of fog rolling in from the river and the sickly-yellow light glowing through the barred windows of the brick and masonry structure, it looked more like some squat, two-story penitentiary than a warehouse. Ironically, like so many of the dockside buildings on the Upper East Side, the happenings within the walls of the warehouse would undoubtedly insure the occupants a fast trip and a red-carpet welcome at a real penitentiary. That is, were it not for careful planning, professional subterfuge and a fair amount of bribery at various levels of power within the windy city.
Reilly walked his route down the halls and through the stacks of wooden crates on the ground floor of the building. His orange and white coat stood out starkly against the somber tones of the concrete, block and wood, tempered only by the grey trench coat and brown fedora he wore. His Winchester Model 12 shotgun rested lazily on his shoulder, gripped only by his right hand as he meandered now through the stacks of boxes for the tenth time tonight. He yawned. Stuck on guard duty again was a drag, but he couldn't complain about the pay. Where else could a twenty year old hood straight off the boat from Dublin make this kind of scratch? Glancing up at the narrow catwalk above, he spied Big Billy K on his own rounds. They exchanged curt nods before each lost sight of one another.
Reilly began to dig around in the pocket of his long coat with his free hand, searching for his elusive pack of cigarettes, his tail twitching irritably. After some mining, he finally found it and fished it out, drawing a smoke from the pack with his lips and shoving the rest of the crumpled package into his pocket. He was well involved in a Quixotic campaign for his lighter when he rounded the end of a row of crates and almost bumped into a figure. Startled, the young gangster cursed out loud and nearly dropped his shotgun.
"Jesus Reilly, wot are ye doin' lad?" Red sighed. The tall gangster with the red-orange coat and the thick Belfast accent motioned incredulously with his hands as he regarded the new guy. "Paradigm a' soldierly soddin' demeanor ye are." The younger hoodlum tried to save face.
"Oh. Geez, Sorry Red." He began. "Long night. I was jes..." He finally held up the elusive oil lighter. "Tryin' t' find me smokin' material."
"Aye, well ye best be watchin' the shipment." Red advised. "Ye remember what I said to the lot of ye. The boss said he's thinkin' that rat bastart Torio may be sendin' some a' his punks down 'ere to nick the booze."
"Ah bollocks to 'em." Reilly muttered, lighting his cigarette. "The spaghetti-bendin' pimps. We got enough guns down 'ere to blow them greaseballs back to..."
"Yee, yee, you're a reeaaal scary lad..." Red laughed. "Ooohoo. Now get back to yer rounds. I got to go check on Lester an' Otis out front." With that, the head of the night's security detail turned and disappeared down the dark corridors of crates. Reilly leaned his shotgun up and leaned back against the boxes. He slowly took a drag from the cigarette and exhaled, watching the smoke drift up toward the rafters. The sound of a pipe falling rang from somewhere down the nearby hall leading to a side door. He rolled his green eyes and threw the cigarette to the concrete floor. Leveling his shotgun toward the hall, Reilly began to walk toward the door in the distance. The corridor was long and dimly lit, the ceiling a mass of steam and water pipes. Reilly held his shotgun at the hip as he slowly made his way along.
"Ello?" He called. "Alright, c'mon out now..." He passed under a large pipe, failing to see the figure crouched upon it, shrouded in shadow. "Ye best not be one a' them wop bastards or..." Reilly froze when he heard a fluttering sound from behind him. He spun about and was temporarily taken aback with confusion.
He thought initially that somehow, a black curtain had unfurled behind him. A dark shape was suspended in front of him, the black material gathering on the floor of the hall. It took a brief moment for him to realize that he was now looking into the dark grey inverted face of a figure hanging upside down from a pipe by his legs. What he'd first thought was drapery was in fact the shadowy form's long black coat, hanging to the floor. Now, a new realization chilled his blood: The figure had two pistols pointed at his head. Reilly stared down the twin voids for a moment, the thought of using his own weapon long gone. He gulped. A sound like thunder echoed through the warehouse.
The figure whipped back up to a sitting position on the pipe, long enough for him to pick up a black fedora and calmly place it on his head. Then he deftly dropped from the pipe, landing in a squat on the floor below. His ears twitched slightly, his head cocked to the side as he heard voices shouting. His grip tightened on the two .45 caliber 1911's in his hands, and he sprang up and dashed into the shadows.
"Wot was that?" Red called, charging into the main floor of the large warehouse, holding a blued Colt Police .38 like a man with a flashlight in a dark alley. "Who th' feck shot?! Wot the feck's goin' on?! O'Connel?! Reilly?!" Behind a pair of oak barrels, the dark-clad gunman crouched, his head cocking from side to side as he listened to the commotion. His mind was turning with a detached, almost scientific assessment of the situation:
'The leader is easily agitated and frightened. Two of their number already eliminated. The rest are confused..." He focused on their voices and the sound of their movements. "Three now on the main floor. Two on the catwalk. Wait...one is approaching from the left flank. Exploitable. Go."
He shot from behind the barrels, catching one of the henchmen off-guard as he used his left arm to push aside the double-barreled shotgun his opponent held. With his right hand, he stabbed the barrel of a 1911 forward and fired two shots into the thug's chest. Pirouetting away, he now fired a shot from his left-hand pistol into the already-falling gangster's head. Immediately, his attention was locked on the silhouette of a guard on the catwalk across the warehouse. He dropped to a knee, lined up his sights and fired both pistols until they were empty. The guard fell from the catwalk, firing his Thompson all the way down to the floor below.
The agile assassin now leapt up, grabbing the edge of one of the crates with the grips of his handguns. He swung himself atop the box and rolled to his back, out of sight of the now panicking rumrunners in the warehouse. With practiced precision, he hit the magazine releases of both pistols simultaneously, flicking the spent magazines free and quickly reloading from the multitude of pouches on his belt. His head snapped to the right as he heard one of the gangsters rushing down the row of crates. He hit the slide releases at the same time he hopped to his feet and aimed down at the head of the hapless guard. Four shots and the pistol-wielding goon was sent face-first to the floor in a pool of blood.
"I got ya' you bloody feckin' devil!" A gunman yelled from the catwalk, firing a Winchester rifle as fast as he could work the lever. A shot impacted the crate next to the assassin's left foot, and another whizzed by his right ear. Without so much as a flinch, he simply leapt backwards off of the wooden crate, firing his pistols at his opponent, three .45 slugs finding their mark. The assassin landed on his heels, tucked into a roll and spun head-over-heels before coming back up to his feet against the crates as his attacker pitched over the railing and landed dead on the floor. A quick reload, and the silent gunman scooped up his hat before sliding in between two stacks of boxes.
"You feckin' shitheel!" Red screamed, firing his revolver down the row of crates and boxes the recent firing had come from. He fired again into the shadows. "Come and get some you wop bastart!" He fired again as he marched down the row in a rage. Coming to the end of the crates, the gangster spun around the corner and fired blindly. "Ye think you're tough mate? Huh?" Something hit the ground behind him, and Red spun about and fired twice more, only hitting the emptiness behind him. On the floor was a broken bottle of Canadian Whiskey. A feeling of dread washed over him, and a look of pure horror crossed his face. Red took a gasping breath and slowly turned around to find himself looking down the gaping barrel of a pistol, aimed between his eyes. "God..." A shot rang out, and Red slumped to the floor.
"No." The assassin muttered. "Not here." He slowly and methodically reloaded his pistols before replacing them in a vest-like leather shoulder holster. He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse. The sound of a rusty door opening and closing was heard, and the building fell silent.
And that's our opening scene. Hell of a way to start a story, huh? Anybody get the real-world references made here, feel free to let me know in a PM. I'll have the next chapter up in a week or so, depending on how busy I get with my Youtube channel and work. Until then, keep those dials locked in right here, folks! This concludes our broadcast day.