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Description

This particular story starts, as most of these things do, with a pretty girl, a couple fools, and a bad, bad man, all mixed together with gin and whisky under an ugly storm-black sky.

Welcome to the Big Apple‘s half-rotten core. And watch your back, Jack. Things are getting’ hot.

What happens when you take the Hunchback of Notre Dame and several film noir classics along the lines of The Maltese Falcon, stick them in a blender and hit puree? Well, possibly this. 'Manhattan Burning' is a WIP detective fiction, set in September of 1938, which a friend and I are putting together here: [link]

It was inspired by Hunchback, but deviates from it so much as to almost be a completely new story. I plan on expanding this drawing to include some of the other major characters, but here it is for now.

Left to right: Patrick Châteaupers, an ex-cop private private eye with a dirty secret, a broken heart and a drinking problem; Joseph Simon, a loquacious jazz fiend who proudly holds the distinction of being the ugliest detective in New York; and La Zingara aka Esme Rigò, a jazz singer and would-be Broadway performer of unparalleled skill who, on account of being a ‘woman of colour’, has been snubbed too many times for her to take.

Excerpt:

The shop windows had been smashed inwards, and there was a blackness of soot inside. It was like staring into the jagged muzzle of a wolf. Above the window, in huge black letters; Jews Go Home. A small crowd had pressed around.

“Who did it?”

The woman turned. A young man - if you could call him that, a scarecrow shamble of old clothes - stood hunched a few feet away. Wide eyes, red hair. He turned his head slightly, and she saw that one side of his face was a distorted, ruined press of flesh.

He saw her look of shock, and his eyes flicked down. “A fire,” he said, softly, then stared with a childlike worry at the wrecked store front.

The sight nearly broke her heart. Poor soul, she though. “Payan’s Gang, everyone’s saying. I don’t know if it’s true. This seems too big for them. I know some of them. They aren’t bad boys- they wouldn’t do a thing like this.”

“Thank you, miss.” He doffed his shapeless cap and scrambled away, bent almost double, a pile of cloth rubbish on legs.

The shambles made his way through midtown, up to 77th street. Here he crawled into a small alleyway and through the back door of a building whose sign proclaimed, ‘Simon & Châteaupers - Private Detectives’.

Inside the door, the shambles stood up straighter - though not a great deal straighter - and the husk of a coat was tossed onto a peg. Next the battered hat, the filthy scarf and fingerless gloves, until the heap of rubbish was a crooked but powerfully-built young man in a pinstripe waistcoat and matching trousers, a crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. As an afterthought, he snatched a fedora from the hat stand and flipped it like a juggler onto his head, where it sat at a half-crook angle and shadowed the melted skin of his face.

“Oh, the shark bites - with his teeth, dear -”

The other man in the office did not even look up. Châteaupers was as handsome as his associate was ugly, a cigarette dangling from one hand with an elegance that film stars might dream of. His blond hair was slicked back in a smooth V, mirroring the line of a strong stubbled jaw. Smoke curled around his head and added to the general air of an angel gone bad. “You get anything?” he asked, exhaling smoke.

“Three Jewish businesses ransacked in one night.”

“Anything we can use?”

Simon crossed to his desk in a kind of a jaunty, lop-sided hop. “Don’t get your shirt in a knot, Pretty-boy. If you ain’t interested in the doin’s of the wider world, that’s your prerogative. As to the case: Our favourite little rich girl is using us.”

“You mean Ms. Kingsley? You sure you’re not just sore ‘cus she said you’d stop traffic?”

He fished in his desk drawer and brought out a bottle of gin. “I might be a little sore. But this is the real deal - her sister ain’t having an affair, she just wants the husband to think she is.” He poured two half-glasses and slid one across the desk to the other man. “That was why she snubbed me. She wanted somebody who’d make the husband suspicious. Seduce the sister, even.”

Châteaupers flicked away the cigarette and picked up his drink. “So how do we get paid out of all of this?”

Again Simon’s wry, crooked grin. “I say we do it. She wants the marriage broken up? Okay. I’ll play. ”

“Five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks,” said Châteaupers, wondering how good-looking the sister was.

“You have a real way with numbers, Pretty-boy. And for that reason, I surrender this case to your expertise.”

They clinked glasses, and drank it neat, all in one go.

More coming soon!

Description

This particular story starts, as most of these things do, with a pretty girl, a couple fools, and a bad, bad man, all mixed together with gin and whisky under an ugly storm-black sky.

Welcome to the Big Apple‘s half-rotten core. And watch your back, Jack. Things are getting’ hot.

What happens when you take the Hunchback of Notre Dame and several film noir classics along the lines of The Maltese Falcon, stick them in a blender and hit puree? Well, possibly this. 'Manhattan Burning' is a WIP detective fiction, set in September of 1938, which a friend and I are putting together here: [link]

It was inspired by Hunchback, but deviates from it so much as to almost be a completely new story. I plan on expanding this drawing to include some of the other major characters, but here it is for now.

Left to right: Patrick Châteaupers, an ex-cop private private eye with a dirty secret, a broken heart and a drinking problem; Joseph Simon, a loquacious jazz fiend who proudly holds the distinction of being the ugliest detective in New York; and La Zingara aka Esme Rigò, a jazz singer and would-be Broadway performer of unparalleled skill who, on account of being a ‘woman of colour’, has been snubbed too many times for her to take.

Excerpt:

The shop windows had been smashed inwards, and there was a blackness of soot inside. It was like staring into the jagged muzzle of a wolf. Above the window, in huge black letters; Jews Go Home. A small crowd had pressed around.

“Who did it?”

The woman turned. A young man - if you could call him that, a scarecrow shamble of old clothes - stood hunched a few feet away. Wide eyes, red hair. He turned his head slightly, and she saw that one side of his face was a distorted, ruined press of flesh.

He saw her look of shock, and his eyes flicked down. “A fire,” he said, softly, then stared with a childlike worry at the wrecked store front.

The sight nearly broke her heart. Poor soul, she though. “Payan’s Gang, everyone’s saying. I don’t know if it’s true. This seems too big for them. I know some of them. They aren’t bad boys- they wouldn’t do a thing like this.”

“Thank you, miss.” He doffed his shapeless cap and scrambled away, bent almost double, a pile of cloth rubbish on legs.

The shambles made his way through midtown, up to 77th street. Here he crawled into a small alleyway and through the back door of a building whose sign proclaimed, ‘Simon & Châteaupers - Private Detectives’.

Inside the door, the shambles stood up straighter - though not a great deal straighter - and the husk of a coat was tossed onto a peg. Next the battered hat, the filthy scarf and fingerless gloves, until the heap of rubbish was a crooked but powerfully-built young man in a pinstripe waistcoat and matching trousers, a crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. As an afterthought, he snatched a fedora from the hat stand and flipped it like a juggler onto his head, where it sat at a half-crook angle and shadowed the melted skin of his face.

“Oh, the shark bites - with his teeth, dear -”

The other man in the office did not even look up. Châteaupers was as handsome as his associate was ugly, a cigarette dangling from one hand with an elegance that film stars might dream of. His blond hair was slicked back in a smooth V, mirroring the line of a strong stubbled jaw. Smoke curled around his head and added to the general air of an angel gone bad. “You get anything?” he asked, exhaling smoke.

“Three Jewish businesses ransacked in one night.”

“Anything we can use?”

Simon crossed to his desk in a kind of a jaunty, lop-sided hop. “Don’t get your shirt in a knot, Pretty-boy. If you ain’t interested in the doin’s of the wider world, that’s your prerogative. As to the case: Our favourite little rich girl is using us.”

“You mean Ms. Kingsley? You sure you’re not just sore ‘cus she said you’d stop traffic?”

He fished in his desk drawer and brought out a bottle of gin. “I might be a little sore. But this is the real deal - her sister ain’t having an affair, she just wants the husband to think she is.” He poured two half-glasses and slid one across the desk to the other man. “That was why she snubbed me. She wanted somebody who’d make the husband suspicious. Seduce the sister, even.”

Châteaupers flicked away the cigarette and picked up his drink. “So how do we get paid out of all of this?”

Again Simon’s wry, crooked grin. “I say we do it. She wants the marriage broken up? Okay. I’ll play. ”

“Five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks,” said Châteaupers, wondering how good-looking the sister was.

“You have a real way with numbers, Pretty-boy. And for that reason, I surrender this case to your expertise.”

They clinked glasses, and drank it neat, all in one go.

More coming soon!