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A lot of people hated Arthur for his job. Hell, even he hated himself for his job. But money was money and nothing pissed him off more than assholes who thought they were above the law.
“Charles Eames, I have with me a warrant to search your establishment,” Arthur droned, holding up the signed and stamped piece of paper that no criminal ever wanted to see.
He was flanked by two other police officers, Cobb and Nash, the one a seasoned vet and the other wet behind the ears. This was supposed to be a simple shakedown but Arthur was prepared for the worst. Charles Eames had a reputation after all.
“Oh Arthur, finally come to arrest me? Take me away in chains? Mm, well, I might as well go quietly. No need to scuff my loafers.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched as Eames stepped aside, not even bothering to look at the warrant. He stood against the bookshelf in the small dingy shop, arms crossed over his chest as the two other officers began to search for some back door, some secret entrance, some sort of secret file cabinet where records of illegal alcohol sales were being kept. Arthur looked as well, trying to focus on finding some sort of hidden doorway and pointedly ignoring the flirtatious staring from Eames.
Every seam in the wall was fingered, every carpet overturned, every book taken from the shelf in that dimly lit shop, and of course nothing was found. And God damned Eames was there, looking bored and smug as ever with a cup of tea at his lips. “No dice, gentlemen? I am truly disappointed in you. And here I was looking forward to a nice long night in a cold hard cell. Maybe next time?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Arthur sighed and tried to think. They could get another warrant for Eames’ home, but he’d been sure that Eames’ shop itself had been the gateway to a speakeasy hidden beneath the ground, or behind a wall, something. But of course, nothing had been found, and here they’d wasted so much time on a fruitless effort. Arthur hated wasting time.
Nash was in Eames’ face, “I have half a mind to get you deported. Where’s your fuckin’ papers?”
Eames smirked over at Arthur, who rolled his eyes. “Nash, no, he’s- he’s got his papers, I just saw them on Tuesday. And then I saw them a week before that. He’s got his papers, he’s not going to be deported. Go wait in the car, I’ll be right there.”
Nash huffed and looked to Cobb, who looked at Arthur and then Eames before shaking his head and motioning for Nash to follow him outside. “Hurry it up Arty. Mal’s making meatloaf tonight and I promised I’d be home early.”
When it was just Arthur and Eames in the room, the British man put his cup of tea down and sighed thoughtfully. “I’m not selling liquor Darling, and even if I was, you’d never find where I kept it. I’m not stupid. Now how about you wipe that scowl off your handsome face and have dinner with me?” he purred, smoothing out the front of his jacket idly.
“Eames, I don’t know where it is, and I don’t know who is helping you run it, but we’re going to find your little establishment and we’re going to shut it down. You have your papers and it’s obvious your little junk shop here is legitimate, but if I have to bring you in for something as low as being a homosexual, I’ll do it. I’ll have your ass thrown into an institution in a heartbeat.”
Eames leveled a look at Arthur. “Well if it’s not the pot calling the kettle black. How’s your wife by the way? That pretty Ariadne still think you’re straight as an arrow? Poor girl. Get out of my shop, Arthur. Go home to your pregnant wife and keep pretending you’re happy. I have a junk shop to run.”
Arthur scowled and gave the dusty shop one last glance over before turning and leaving, pulling his hat lower on his head. The tails of his long black coat whipped behind him as the cold New York weather forced him to pull his collar high.
Dominic was waiting at the car, and Nash was inside, writing something down in his notebook. “Arthur, do you really think he’s the one running the gig? We’re going to have to find this blind pig soon or we’re going to be forced onto another case.”
“Get in the car Cobb, I don’t want to hear it right now,” Arthur growled as he crossed in front of the car and yanked open the door. One day he’d catch Eames red-handed. One fuckin’ day.
Minutes after the police car drove away, Eames sighed heavily and grabbed his coat from the hanger on the wall. He locked up the shop but didn’t put his keys away as he walked to the end of the block and into an alleyway two minutes from his shop.
A painted blue door beside a dumpster was unmarked, but had a lock to which very few people had a key. Eames was one of those people. He slipped the key into the lock and looked around once before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
“Eames!” came Yusuf’s voice, smoky and dark in the warmth of the lobby. “Close up shop early today, my friend?”
Eames nodded and began to remove his jacket once more. The lobby of this speakeasy was covered in beautiful gold and red tapestry, the air full of exotic smoke, the carpet covered in intricate swirls reminiscent of the tattoos on Eames’ skin. He could hear people chattering and laughing in the room down the hall. “Cops decided to pay me a visit. Still think the shop is some secret entrance to this place. Too stupid to search the entire block it seems.”
Yusuf nodded, dark lips wrapped around the end of a hose connected to a tall, fancy hookah. “Mm. Well, lucky us, eh? Here, have a smoke with me, relax.”
“No, no,” Eames waved in dismissal, “I’ll just have a drink and go home. I could use a whiskey.”
Smiling, Yusuf waved him on.
It would be 3 more years until Prohibition ended, and on that evening in December of 1933, Arthur Wright opened the door to a bottle of scotch and a bouquet of flowers.
Eames went home with a black eye and a grin so bright you could see it from the moon.