(Very special thanks to @Comrade Emmanuel for helping write this)
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[Trumpets blare as the logo “CINEMA NEWSPAPER” emerges on screen, two figures (man and woman) holding a hammer and sickle above it, before fading into various screens of soldiers, tanks, planes, and other war stuff, before the first title…]
STALINGRAD COUNTER OFFENSIVE BEGINS!
NARRATOR:
Our brave comrades in Stalingrad have begun their counteroffensive against Nazi forces! Operation Juniper, as the Stavka has dubbed it, commences as the Nazi offensive has collapsed. Already, troop movement has begun as American and Soviet troops bravely stave off the German menace. After months of fighting, might this mark the beginning of the end for the Battle of Stalingrad?
GROZNY FALLS TO THE 71ST ARMY
In the Chechen city of Grozny, thanks to the combined efforts of the 67th and 71st Armies with local partisan forces, the city was successfully defended as Adolf made a hasty retreat from the city. Commanders Volkov* and Sampson*
[shown on the screen walking down the streets] assess the damage of the fighting. The Germans were decimated in the fighting, and the remaining soldiers ended up unable to fight back.
ROSTOV OFFENSIVE BEGINS
INTREV forces have begun their offensive to take back the occupied city of Rostov. In the early morning of July 14th, a movement of troops departed….
“Well, if it ain’t my two favorite enforcers,” Jimmy laughed as he turned towards us. He still had his cigar in his mouth as he spoke, smoke pouring out, bits landing in his mustache. In his cheap corduroy suit and bowler hat, he looked like a comic strip character. Barney Google, maybe.
Jimmy and some other dude were the only two in the theater. Well, except us. Me, towering over Frankie, in my black trenchcoat and black hat, him in his brown trenchcoat and cheap fedora, like he walked out of a bad detective novel.
We walked down to the row behind him as he sat back down, and pulled a case from his jacket.
“You boys want some Cubans?”
“Shit,” Frankie immediately reached for one, and leaned in to have Jimmy light it. “I heard you can’t get these no more. Even the dupe dens ain’t sellin’ ‘em.”
“Nah, this is from my personal collection, genosse. From back in the day, when I used to move molasses” Before becoming a deputy immigration official, James “Jimmy the Giant” Fredrickson had been a prolific bootlegger during the 20’s. He once boasted of being “the most successful black bootlegger in the entire South.” I doubt it, but who am I to question it. “The usual smugglers ain’t goin’ out. All them Jerries with their U-Boats. Don’t want to get blasted. Don’t want no cigars cloggin’ up the Atlantic!”
“I hear that they want to set up new cigar factories in Haiti, now that they’ve joined the union” Frankie coughed as he smoked. “They want to start selling ‘Haitian Cigars’ to replace the Cuban ones.”
“Haitian Cigars?” Jimmy also coughed as he laughed. “Nobody wants to buy no damn ‘Haitian cigars’! It don’t even sound right, ‘Haitian Cigar’. Mein Gott, get out of here with that bourgeois shit.”
Jimmy didn’t know a word of German before he joined the party, but figured he’d put in a couple phrases to fit in with his colleagues.
Jimmy looked back at the screen, another interminable sequence of soldiers marching in some godforsaken Russian forest, and turned to me. “Say, Harry, how come you ain’t fightin’ fascism for Uncle Sam? Bumpy pulled some strings for you?”
Being a spry 25 year old, I got asked that a lot. Those in the know asked about Bumpy immediately after. Truth is, I just lied a bit on the questionnaire and the docs decided that I was “unfit for service.” I wasn’t gonna get killed for no damn socialist cause, putting my life on the line for complete strangers, not when I had a good thing going with Bumpy.
“C’mon, Harry. War makes men!” Jimmy finally took the cigar out of his mouth. “When I fought in France during the First World War, I may have had some of my toes removed, but then, God willing, I got out of that, and look at me now!”
A corrupt bureaucrat?
“My sister’s stationed in Urals,” Frankie interjected. “She says she found a bear cub the other day.”
Jimmy just sent an eyebrow to Frankie. “Ladies in war…. Damn, now I’ve seen everything.”
“Okay, Jimmy,” I usually had enough of his conversation at this point. “You know why we’re here.”
“Jeez, man,” Jim reached into his pocket, “Always so serious, ain’t no time for Schwachsinn.”
He finally produced two documents from his coat pocket. A pair of passports, with official Comintern intertravel seals.
“Richardo Mendoza and Pierre Margulies”, Jimmy read off the fake names, “should be able to go to Mexico and Haiti after their meeting next week without the Pubs getting suspicious.”
I just grabbed the papers and stuffed it in my coat, while Frankie just sat and stared at the screen.
“Hey, it’s Cab! Remember, we threw that dude out of Club Cairo a few weeks ago?”
We did. He was one of our headliners at the Cairo, his new home after the Cotton Club was burned down (though, here, he could eat dinner whenever he wanted). He also “gamed” a whole lot in the basement when we had our “Riverboat” nights—too much gaming. Bumpy didn’t want one of his headliners losing all their money at his establishment. Bad advertising, plus he might squeal to the Pubs.
“Magnificent performer,” Jimmy sputtered and moved in his seat, “Terrible at the ponies. Say, you two gonna stay for the picture?”
“No, we have a bit of a problem we have to take care of.”
“I heard about that.” Jimmy raised his hands, “I know: If anyone asks, we never met.”
“No.” I grabbed some popcorn. “We didn’t.”
I walked out to the lobby, Frankie close behind.
“Jeez, dude, can’t we stay a little longer?” Frankie hadn’t seemed to mature past the age of 14 sometimes, I swear.
Across from the theater was Madame Chang’s Palace, the finest Chinese food establishment in all of Atlanta. Hell, all the South, definitely better than those joints in Des Moines or Milwaukee.
We walked in, and were greeted by Comrade Mrs. Chang herself. We bowed.
“Ooooh, Harry and Frankie! My two favorite customers!”
“Jeez, Mrs. Chang, I betcha say that to all your customers.”
“Oooh, you. And how are you Harry?”
“Going pretty well, Mrs. Chang.” She was delightful. She came here 18 years ago, took the long boat from China, and built a successful family business. Her son was studying to be a lawyer.
”The usual for you boys?”
For me, that was chow mein, for Frankie, the egg foo yong.
We sat at a booth, which had a radio attached. Frankie took no time adjusting the dial. There was intermittent static before it came on:
”… Remember that war bonds are the only thing standing between you and the fascist leviathan! War Bonds can hit Hitler, Muzzle Mussolini, and Humble Hirohito! Ask about buying war bonds today! The Revolution continues with you! We now return to your regularly scheduled program.
[Drum roll] Good evening, and welcome back to the Terrors of the Mind! [Brass refrain] When we left off, Laureen was an eager young steelworker who fell in love with a charming doctor. However, little does she realize the doctor was actually an escaped patient of the New Hampshire Psychiatric Ward…”
I tuned the rest of it out, but Frankie was enraptured. No, my focus was in the back. Madame Chang happened to run a mahjong room in the book. Mahjong was perfectly legal-provided there was no exchange. A lot of us came by, and Bumpy always appreciated any business opportunity.
We sat for about 20 minutes (decided to get some fried rice), before the door opened, and I could see our target.
Two brothers, both brown haired. Late 30’s-ish, if I had to guess their age. One was shorter than the other. The shorter one was also bigger. The tall one hadn’t shaved. The short one was carrying the tall one, who had clearly been drinking.
“Shiiit, Andy, did you see that guy?”
“Sure did Louie.”
“Shit, that guy plays mayjang like he’s from Ningbo!” Louie let out a barrel laugh before coughing. “I won so much fucking money, heh, heh, bleh”
Andrew and Louis Cole. They had been bootleggers in a previous life, but when the revolution came, they had to find something else to sell. Decided to get into the dope game. Heroin, cocaine, opium. Real small time. When we came down here, we offered all the local dealers a very generous 20% fee for all sales. The Coles have been dutifully paying for years.
Until last week.
The Coles left. Frankie turned down the radio, and waited. I nodded, and put down the fare for service. We left the restaurant, and walked briskly towards the Coles. We walked until we were out of the windows of the restaurants, and the brothers were in front of an alleyway.
”Hey!” I yelled to the brothers. Andrew turned his head, and gasped.
“Oh no.” He looked ready to move, when Frankie and I pulled our guns.
“Waz gon on, Andy?”
“Get in the alley. We can’t do this in the streets.”
They complied, Andy dragging his brother into the alleyway. We stood in front of them, guns still pulled.
Andy sweated up a storm. “How can I help you….”
“Cut the shit! This can go a lot easier if you just admit what you did.”
“Look, I don’t know….”
“I got a cousin who works at the telegraph office.” Frankie reached into his coat jacket “She gave me this very interesting wire transfer the other day. It was $600. Paid directly from Andrew Cole of Atlanta, New Afrika to a Jack Zuta from Chicagoland.”
“I don’t know who…”
“He was one of Capone’s guys from back in the day. Defected to the North Siders, the Irish. He still works for ‘em. Word is, he’s been sending new product to dealers all over the country in exchange for a fee and exclusive distribution rights”
Now that all the Italians and Jews were either dead or in Cuba, the Irish had taken over the old Mafia rackets up north. Helps that they don’t make a lot of noise and they never coordinate with each other. They stick to their own cities. Except for now, when they’re trying to muscle their ways into other regions. The New York mob were fighting the Chinese Triads out west, Boston was fighting the Indian [1] gangs in the Rockies, and the North Side Gang of Chicago and Legs Diamond’s bunch in Philly were trying to penetrate our territory (when they weren’t fighting the Poles).
Now, the big boss, Madame St. Clair, she could handle the Italians and Jews. She kept Dutch Schultz and Lucky Luciano out of Harlem, easy. But she knew those guys. She doesn’t know any of these new players. The paddies worked a lot different than the Five Families. That’s why we gotta protect our territory.
“Look,” Andy grabbed his shirt collar. “I don’t know what you think…”
“I think” Frankie pointed his gun at Andy, “you sold out to those potato munchers. Those micks up in Chicago and Philly. You’ve been selling their product in our territory.”
“So, vhat if we hav?” Louis stood up. “They only thake 7% of the sales. They also don’t keep giving us garbage to sell!”
Bullshit.
“You know Madame St. Clair don’t like it when you double cross her.”
“Who da fuck cares! She’s in New York.” Louis walked up to me. “And she ain’t scare me, and you ain’t scare me. You’re all just a bunch of dumb…”
I didn’t even hesitate to shoot him right in his forehead. He groaned and immediately faceplanted to the ground. Andy jumped up and fled the other direction. Frankie fired off two shots, one to the hip and one to the neck. That seemed to have gotten him.
“Shit” Frankie grabbed his arm. “Why does the recoil have to be so hard?”
I shook my head and smiled, patting him on the back. Frankie was still a novice. “You get used to it once you’ve done it enough.”
We began walking back to the restaurant. Frankie was still holding his arm.
“Say, I think the theater might have another movie after this. We could see that.”
“Which one?”
“Cabin in the Sky. Lena Horne is in it.”
I didn’t really like musicals. But Lena Horne was real fine.
“Let’s finish our food first.”
---------------------------
“Rebekah!”
A voice snaps me to attention, and I turn to my right to see James with a look of confused concern. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing, James!” I quickly try to reassure him, “It’s just a skip of a nerve. First day and all that.”
James, despite raising an eyebrow skeptically, doesn’t press the issue. He points in a direction down the hall. “Captain wants us both in his office. You good?”
“Yeah, James. I’m…I’m alright.” The phrase doesn’t come out confidently, but James has already started to walk towards the captain’s office. The station is a hive of agents hyper-focused on piles of papers or rushing somewhere to give papers to, as James and I brush past a few who are equally in a hurry.
It shouldn’t be a surprise; the Public Safety Regiment in New Afrika is among the most active in the nation. It also meant that any agent assigned here would have to be among the best Public Safety had to offer. I just never considered myself to be among the best, it’s hard to start believing when so many have told you that you weren’t gonna be nothing.
Well, look at me now.
James and I pushed through all the busy desks, the phones, the papers and coffee, and made it into Sergeant Verne’s office. He was looking at pinned colored photos on the wall. A crime scene. Two bodies. He was staring at them, trying to think, before eying us.
“Comrade James, Comrade Rebekah” for a Civil War vet and Public Safety legend, Verne was very calm. Official. Just dedicated.
“Color crime scene photos?” Color photos were still new, I had actually only seen one or two before this.
“We give the sepiatone ones to the papers. They want to test it out here before sending them to the battlefield.”
I sat, adjusting my trenchcoat and the green dress underneath. James threw his coat and hat on the rack, and grabbed a folded paper out of his pocket. Verne grabbed it and opened it.
“This was found in a dumpster near Chang’s Restaurant?”
“A payment of $600, from Jack Zuta”, James walked up and pointed to one of the corpses to the alleyways, one further away, “to Andrew Cole.”
“And Zuta is an accountant for this Bugs Moran, who is the big mafia boss in Chicago.” Verne was mostly trained in political crime. The Klan, Sons, and all that. Organized crime was not really his expertise. We had to explain who Al Capone was. That’s why we were here. We busted up several of Madame St. Clair’s illegal dope dens and casinos across New Afrika and in Metropolis. We brought in a number of her lieutenants. But this case had a lot of political implications.
“Now, Moran is trying to compete with Legs Diamond to lay claim to New Afrika.” James tied a string around Moran’s photo, and pulled the other end towards the pin of the crime scene. “Offering lower rates to white drug dealers to get away from Bumpy and pay them, along with better product.”
Verne nodded slowly. “These two took the deal?”
“Stopped paying Bumpy last week.” James pulled another thread to Bumpy. “And he told two of his goons to pay them a visit. Two of his former Harlem muscle, Harry Strand and Frank Messier, ”
“Look, this sounds important” Verne waved his hand, “but this seems more a matter for the local police, how does this…”
“My father” James Fredrickson, Jr. pulled out a folder from his bag, ” had a meeting last night with two friends at the Lincoln Theater. Harry and Frankie. Now, he handed over some very interesting documents to him. You know how my father likes the bottle?”
I at least knew. I saw Big Jimmy when he had a few.
“He was bragging about it to my mother last night, and I happened to come across this file in his office when I visited. ‘Forgot it in my bag’.”
Verne took the file and his eyes widened when he saw it.
“I see.” He opened the folder to us, allowing us to see the photos attached to fake applications for “Richardo Mendoza” and “Pierre Margulis”
“Sufi Abdul Hamid and Abdul Bey-Al.”
And that was the hook. Sufi Abdul Hamid was a Harlem Garveyite on the run after stabbing local party official Hammie Snipes. He also happened to be married to the big boss herself. Abdul Bey-El was the leader of the so-called “Reformed Moorish Science Temple in Chicago. Rumor had it he was living in Haiti in the home of a supporter, a doctor named Francois.
“So, you believe that these two will be in Atlanta?”
“Not officially,” I took out a pamphlet, “but I did find these. Pamphlets for a “African Revival”, being held at the Club Cairo in a few days.”
“That place,” Verne sneered. I don’t think I ever saw him sneer. “I don’t know why we haven’t shut it down. Harlem gangsters trying to spread their bourgeois decadence to the first black socialist state. It’s just the Cotton Club with mummies.” (I think I described it to him like that once.)
“They’re good at record keeping.” I shuffled around my bag for my next item. “They saw what happened with the Italians, and they kept out of unions, prostitution, racketeering. They stick to gambling and numbers, and bribing the right officials.”
“Like Comrade James’ father” Verne turned his eye towards
“Comrade Verne, that’s unfair! He came up with key evidence”
“It’s okay.” James held his hand up. “My father has shady connections, but I don’t think he knew who these guys were. He probably thought it was just two of Bumpy’s other goons. Anyway, we believe that Hamid and Bey-El are using this meeting at the Cairo to merge their supporters and organizations together. Form a political bloc to challenge Proletarian democracy.”
“Ah, I see why this was brought to my attention. But how…”
Finally, I found it. The photographs. The thing that tied everything together. I show them to Verne, who scratched his chin.
“Intriguing. You intend to show these to Comrade St. Clair.”
“No,” I pointed the same figure in some of the photos “I’m going to show Comrade Strand these when we bring him and Messier in for the Cole murders, and say that unless he gives up his boss and the meeting, these are going straight to Comrade St. Clair, and we cannot control what she does with this information. ”
Verne just smirked. “Well, it’s a little underhanded, but that’s what we do.”
[1] Indian as in the old term for Native American *[WPA]: Works Progress Administration *[NBI]: National Bureau of Investigation
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