I Fought The Law...

[Ramlock]

It was a quiet day so far. No hysterical dames or rival flatfoots. Not that life was that romantic all the time. A jealous wife suspecting a cheating husband, a concerned parent unwilling to wait for police to find their lost child... Maybe, if the day was really interesting, I'd get to try to find some petty still operator. Life wasn't quite as glamorous for a private inspector as people expected. At least, not for those of us who enjoyed our lives and our livelihoods...

My name was easy enough to read on the door. Cyril Shariph, P. I. Not a very inventive sign, but it got the job done. Chicago has plenty of us, but it's a tough time. Alcohol, or rather, the outlawing of it, has made for a lot of bad blood and a lot of broken families. Makes for a passable living for the guys like me, though. I'd like it if someone was to clean up this town, but that's not going to happen any time soon. Until then, I can only try to solve the little problems, and try to get by...

[Nayt]

November 19th, 1924. Chicago.

It was a tough town. Ten years ago proved that one couldn't get off clean by going unseen--the innocent bystander could be blackmailed, and when the Black Hand struck, it pulled no punches. Though the mach organization was long gone, it was still a point of contention for many of those that saw the degradation of the city, knowing that nothing--not even the clearest state of innocence--could guarantee 100% livelihood. And just last week, sitting on one of those many thrones of the town ceased to hold true as a suspended sign of immortality. Dion O'Banion, a fairly infamous and previous immortal of Chicago's north side, had been gunned down in his flower shop. There were still no leads on the murderers of this man, and it was unlikely that there ever would be.

That event alone was proof enough that no one, not the innocent, not even the "immortal," were truly invulnerable. It was a sobering time, indeed . . .

_________________________

A knock arose upon Cyril Shariph's door. It wasn't a strong rapping, but it certainly wasn't dainty enough to belong to that of a woman. On the other side of the door stood a man about five feet and nine inches tall and built like the average American man--not overweight, just healthy. He wore a gray and white three piece suit, and had short black hair, mainly covered by a bowl hat. He couldn't have been any older than thirty five. He didn't appear to be entirely American, though--his height and the way his face was structured was a trace of oriental blood. He may not have been entirely Asian-American, but his grandparents might have been.

[Ramlock]

"Door's open."

Cyril would remain seated at his desk as he called to his visitor, the blinds behind him casting alternating lines of shadow and light into the dimly lit room. The office was unheated, insulated from the cold Chicago winter only by the walls and heat from other rooms, making it somewhat cool. The office itself was sparse and somewhat small, containing a large desk with a tall chair for Cyril, two chairs for any visitors, a row of filing cabinets along one wall, a tall standing safe in another corner, and a coatrack by the door. The desk was currently occupied with a large set of blueprints, a phone, and a lit desk lamp, otherwise devoid of any utensils or papers.

Cyril sat behind his chair with his head directed at the papers, casting his eyes up from beneath the brim of a light gray fedora to see the man entering his office. He was dressed in a white dress shirt with a red tie, and wore a set of light gray pinstriped dress pants with suspenders to match them. Beneath his left arm, a shoulder holster was visible, bearing a pistol, while the double-breasted coat for his suit sat on the coatrack, next to a long tan overcoat. His face was clean-shaven, but cast in shadow in the dark room.

"What brings you to my office?"

[Nayt]

The man did not hesitate to twist the doorknob and let himself in once he was given the go-ahead. Once inside, he shut the door behind him and passed a glance to each corner of the office. It could have been better, it could have been worse, but how much could one expect in a town like this? Chicago was full of run down, beat up lofts, and the only people who worked out of well kept and shining villas were the type of people that any smart person wanted to avoid at all costs. Coincidentally, this was exactly what he had expected.

"Cyril Shariph, right?" It was a rhetorical question--he had read the name on the office and knew what man he was here to find. It was just a decent ice breaker.

He spoke with an accent prone to those of his Asian lineage, regardless of his obvious blend of American blood. This was the type of man who didn't come from Chicago--no, it wasn't often that one saw a huge sector of non-English speakers. This was the type of man who stemmed from New York, likely with roots in Chinatown . . . or perhaps not. At a closer glance and better attention to his accent, to those that had better notions of race, language, and genetics, he was Japanese--or, at the very least, his relatives were.

The man didn't sit down. Instead, he stood before Cyril's desk, eyes down upon the private investigator. He had a hard attitude, like a brick wall. His face didn't change, his voice didn't change; no inflection was going to suggest contentment or resentment. The most one could find in him was the lifeless stare of a man who'd seen too much for one lifetime.

He coughed, and though it should have been awkward, nothing was going to change that stone cold demeanor of his. "I have heard from many friends that you are good with . . . finding people . . ."

[Ramlock]

The man who had entered was something of a rarity in Chicago dealings, but not unknown. Cyril had to deal with some of the more outlandish citizens, and occasionally the more illegal. Those areas of the city also tended to have more foreigners... Cyril was able to recognize the accent, but couldn't say much more about the man... Except that he had the eyes of an old man in a city that did its best to crush youth.

"I suppose you could say that. I can find plenty of people. It depends what you want to find them for, though. I'm a private investigator, and I'm not willing to take every case..."

Cyril wasn't a hired killer, and he wasn't a policeman. There were some overlaps between the jobs, but he wasn't out to kill people, or save people, for that matter. His job was to find information, but not so much information that he got himself killed. Just enough that anyone who came to him was able to deal with their problem themselves. The man's demeanor was too difficult to read. Certain jobs just weren't worth any amount of money, but he couldn't know yet...

"What people are you looking for?"

[Nayt]

"Person," he responded.

That was the difficult with private investigators. They had a free choice over what jobs they took and what jobs they did not. Fortunately, though, this one had a bit of a reputation with his clients, a couple of which this man knew--and trusted. And their judgment had lead him to Cyril Shariph's door.

For a moment, he shuffled through his coat pocket, taking his eyes off of the investigator for only a second. He withdrew two particulars from the inner pocket. First and foremost, his wallet. He needed to have it out, just in case. Secondly, he held a photograph between his index and middle fingers.

"A woman. This woman," the photo was slid onto Shariph's desk.

The photograph was certainly not an amateur shoot; the equipment used must have been used in high class professional journalism. Rather than a muddy, blurry image, many a detail could be picked up, and the shot was fairly close up. Through the stale black and white, a woman could be seen standing on a sidewalk, posing with one hand on her hip and the other arm by her side. She had short, light toned hair, cut down by her ears, with her bangs at length with the rest of her hair, stylistically "unkempt," a high class yet wild look.

She wore a bright smile and a Chinese dress that clung to every subtle curve. She had a modest bust, a thin waist, and developed hips--and she was 100% Japanese, without a doubt. She had about the closest thing to an hourglass figure that a Japanese woman could ever attain . . . all things considered, at least, as Japanese women under the age of forty were generally short, frail, and rarely developed beyond the equivalent of a sixteen to eighteen year old American girl, regardless of how much their skin showed their age. Small bust, thin waist, thin hips. The woman in the picture was a bit better off than the norm for her age group, that much anyone could be certain of.

"Her name is Eri Tetsuken. She is my brother's fiancee," the man narrated, "A month and a half ago, she disappeared from their loft in New York. There were sign of struggle in his loft. Last week, I received a letter from a friend of mine in this town, a photographer, telling me of this "beautiful woman" he caught a glimpse of and photographed. It turned out to be her. We are not sure why she is here in Chicago, but it appears as if she is doing well. We know of her as elusive, cunning, and unnervingly intelligent. If it is that she does not wish to be found, she will not. If she is aware of us, and it is that she does not wish to be found--then she will leave town. I feel that it is a strong potential. And that is why I feel as if we must hire a professional. Someone she does not know."

[Ramlock]

Cyril would pick up the picture, holding it up in the sparse sunlight to study it. The photograph itself was pretty impressive, much more than his own camera could manage. She was certainly attractive, and didn't seem the sort to avoid anyone... The story didn't quite make sense, though. There was a struggle in New York? The man obviously didn't seem to think it was a kidnapping, but what was he implying? And more importantly, what was his goal here...

"I can find her. I have an important question, though. Why are you here looking for her? There's some things I don't want to be a part of. Gives me a bad reputation..."

Cyril didn't exactly have a clean reputation, as there had been enough unfaithful spouses caught through illicit means or other somewhat immoral jobs. However, he wasn't going to aid in a plot to kill or kidnap this girl, fiance or no. From what the man said, she had chosen to come here, for whatever reason. Cyril could argue the merits of that choice, but he wasn't going to help in certain activities. Although, for that matter, what was the girl involved in? Eri... Japanese women weren't exactly the first suspect when it came to illegal activities, but she would certainly make a hell of a trophy wife...

[Nayt]

"Firstly, to find out why she left."

The man paused. He had taken absolutely no time in responding to Cyril's question, and was unshaken by it. Either he was truly a stone cold man or he had good intentions--and it could have gone either way. After all, he was a New Yorker. As screwed up as New York could be sometimes, it was nothing compared to Chicago.

"Secondly, to bring her back to New York, if at all possible." He left it at that, though. If at all possible. He was either talking about benevolent convincing or kidnapping, and it was unlikely that he was going to elaborate.

This was only secondary, though. The primary reason was to understand why she was here in Chicago, which was the most important--at least to him. The Japanese had a fairly strong attachment for family, like many other foreigners in America, and understanding why family was harmed took priority. Then it was a matter of attending to the damage. It was quite the opposite of how Italians did things . . .

He began to open his wallet, flipping through pictures and bills, counting individual Benjamin Franklins and Andrew Jacksons. He didn't withdraw anything yet, but segregated some from others. Cyril first had to name his price. Usually, this sort of business denoted an up front pay of around half of the total, and a followup payment after the job was done. His sources here in Chicago pointed Cyril out to be one of the best at this, but they hadn't named any prices. Fortunately, he had more than enough to suffice.

"For what price would you claim this job?" he asked, assuming it was time to talk business, now that all the details had been tossed out.

[Ramlock]

Cyril wasn't entirely sure what the man's intentions were, but they seemed harmless enough. Justified, in any case. Searching for a missing prospective sister-in-law was understandable, as well as trying to convince her to come back. If nothing else, if she was as capable as this man seemed to think, she wouldn't have much of a problem getting away from him. Besides... Cash was tight. The man's wallet was very persuasive...

"A hundred dollars up front for the information, non-refundable. If you want pictures, that's another hundred up front, and if you want information on people around her, that's a hundred too. Then, the same amount when I finish the job. If I can't get it done, you get everything back but the first hundred, and I'll refer you to someone else and quit being a detective."

The man had deep pockets: a hundred dollars wasn't walking around money. Cyril normally wouldn't charge so much, but if he was capable of paying it and willing... Well, if it wasn't worth it to him, he didn't have to pay. And Cyril's promise was legitimate: he made it to all his customers, and he was still in the business. All a part of the reputation. For everyone from Dion O' Banion to Cyril to the lowliest thug, respect determined the fate of your life...

[Nayt]

Without hesitation, he withdrew three bills--three greenbacks painted with Benjamin Franklyn's face. They were set upon Cyril's desk just seconds before the man placed his wallet back within the confines of his coat. He hadn't even thought twice about putting up that payment. Six hundred dollars total, and it didn't seem like that phased him at all. Well, it didn't seem like many things actually phased him, but at the very least, he must have had a stash of money--or perhaps this wasn't his money to be throwing around. He didn't mention if it was the brother's idea or not, but if it had been, then the chances of this Eri having been a potential trophy wife would have definitely sky rocketed.

Cyril's promise was pretty influential. That's what had lead to this man being there: for those that he knew in Chicago that dealt with the man, he always made good on that promise. Of course, he hadn't heard the statement before, but those that referred him to Shariph had been greatly influenced by it--and if Cyril made good on this promise like he had so many times before, then he'd have another man with influence tossing his name out there whenever someone in Chicago needed information. Though, for him to have contacts in Chicago while he lived in New York . . . that suggested something in itself, especially with the amount of money he had to throw around.

He didn't withdraw his hand from his inner coat pocket with nothing, though--he brought out a pen and a business card. On the back of it, he wrote a number and an address, both of which for a room in a fairly popular and high class hotel, the Lexington Hotel, at 22nd and Michigan.

"We can be contacted there between the hours of four and ten PM," he stated.

On the reverse side of the business card read the name "Heita Kiosna," and the business was located in New York City--though, it was unclear what the business was, exactly. There was a call number and everything; pretty high class, actually. Pretty professional.

"And . . . by the way," he paused before stepping back, "My name--it is Hinan Kiosna. For when you call."

[Ramlock]

Cyril was a bit surprised that the man had actually taken him up on the offer, despite the money he was throwing around. In a way, it made him worry what exactly he'd just gotten himself into. On the other hand, he may well not have to work for the rest of the year, and he'd have a very happy Christmas at that. He would look over the business card, making a note to look into both Heita and Hinan Kiosna. They were perhaps people to know, but people of influence could also be people of danger. A bit of freelance investigation would go a long way towards keeping himself alive...

"We have a deal then. I'll contact you when I know more. I'll only discuss the case in person, though, as a matter of privacy. I don't expect it to be a problem for people of your means, but it's just the right way to do these things. Sorry your visit to Chicago wasn't under better circumstances. If you don't need that picture, I'd like to hold on to it."

He only had a name and a bit of information to start with, and Chicago was a big place. Any help would make his job easier, but more importantly, it would make his job quicker. With the seed money Hinan had given him, Cyril could find her anyway, but the picture would go a long way towards resolving the case.

"If there's nothing else, I can make a few phone calls and get started right away."

[Nayt]

"That is all," Hinan Kiosna stated as he bowed his head.

Even for foreigners in contemporary American culture, whose values were influenced and greatly shaped by those around them, it was common for certain customs of the original society to remain. Hinan was more than likely raised in a traditional Japanese household, and while he had experiences with American culture, particular respects from his family's culture were not forgotten. Bowing was perhaps the most common and useful show of respect in Japanese culture, although he obviously wasn't paying heed to the original etiquette of it. In Japan, one bowed low to an individual of higher social class, and one of higher social class simply moved his or her back a little for someone of lower social class--all depending on how low and how high. A complicated system, really. It was easier here in American, when a handshake, bow of the head, money, and a tommygun when need be could both get and give a person all the respect he or she needed.

Nonetheless, it was best if Cyril Shariph began his investigations sometime in the near future, so Hinan was going to get out of the way. No "goodbye" or the like was provided. He had simply bowed his head again, stepped back, twisted the doorknob, and excused himself from Shariph's office.

This job . . . was going to be a bit different than most of them. The awkward nature of New York to Chicago dealings should have spoken that much, but there was more: how hard was it to spot the most exotic woman in the city? Not very. But how hard was it going to be to find her?

[Ramlock]

I watched him walk out, my wallet a little heavier and my mind already running. There wasn't a whole lot to work on, but in a city full of the downtrodden and the selfish, finding a beautiful and exotic woman was easy. Sometimes too easy. Walking to the safe, I retrieved my camera, a large but useful device. It was about five years due for a replacement, but so was everything else in this city.

Eri Tetsuken. Hinan seemed to think of her as some sort of mastermind or elusive subject, but with a name like that, there was only so much hiding she was doing. If the investigation went badly, there was always the option of finding Hinan's contact here in Chicago, but the first step seemed like a good bet, to learn about the Kiosna's if not to find their errant woman. Of all the places in the world to run to from New York, Chicago pointed to one thing. A rich man was always a thief. Didn't matter where he was or how he made his money, it was somehow stolen...

My first stop would be an old friend. His brother was a thug of some renown in O'Banion's group, and he tended to know certain things, at least concerning more legitimate affairs. Besides, he was a truck driver who tended to get hijacked an awful lot. Well more than any honest man. Not my problem, though. His wife was sick, and he didn't flash the money around. He was sick too, but the syphilis hadn't ever affected him that much. He wouldn't begrudge me a lunch, particularly if I was buying...

[Nayt]

There was a diner a few blocks away, a joint "owned" by the Chicago Outfit, which was within itself a bit of a public secrete. No one said or did anything about it, and since no one messed with the place, it seemed fine enough. It was no different than a garage, though; it wasn't going to be used . . . probably. Certain discounts on food, certain free goods, and the like--that was about all. It wasn't like there was any loyalty or reason for the Outfit's rivals to target the place. It wasn't even one of those "legitimate establishments," either. Likewise, it wasn't like there were any "independent" eateries around this town. This one simply had the most stable politics possible surrounding it.

That was where Cyril and Stewart Thompson were to meet.

Thompson sat (somewhat patiently, as he was receiving a free meal out of this--enough to render most of his general impatient and attention deficiency stricken demeanor null and void) at a booth on the south side of the predominately booth-populated diner, whose chain of booth tables lined three sides of the place, leaving only a few tables scattered around the middle. It was quite the decision on the owner's part, considering how unpopular that sort of setup was.

Stewart Thompson was a fairly unassuming man, stout and wide, with a fair amount of muscle under a couple layers of fat. He had some problems other than just his disease, though--namely a difficulty in paying attention to one thing at a time for any considerable length of time and a bit of impatience which stemmed from that. There was a bit more to it than that today, though--all this past week, in fact. Cyril had been informed over the phone of this: Stewart's grandfather, Scott Thompson, a retired English teacher in the Massachusetts area, passed away just last week. Coincidentally, the cause of death was not lung cancer, although it damn well should have been. Not that it was proven that lung cancer could form somewhere in the midst of life smoking cigarettes from the age of five to eighty six of that or anything . . .

[Ramlock]

Cyril would walk into the diner, wearing his overcoat and with a large camera around his neck, quickly finding his way to the correct booth. The weather outside was cold and gray, but snow hadn't yet come to stay in the city, leaving all the filth of the rest of the year to clutter the streets. The city was slowing down, though, in anticipation of the weather. Thanksgiving would be arriving soon, but it was a holiday that only served to make most people in Chicago uncomfortable and irritable...

"Afternoon, Stewart. Glad you could make it. How's life?"

Cyril would sit down at the booth, extending his hand to Stewart for a handshake, content to wait a few minutes to start looking for leads. There was time to be civil, after all. Eri wasn't going anywhere in the next few days, and neither was Hinan. When the server came around, Cyril would order whatever the special was for lunch, waiting for the food to come around before getting down to business.