My Love (Bwwm)

So Many Calls (Artie's POV)

My dimly lit speak-easy provided a refuge of sorts, but even there, the relentless demands of my illicit dealings followed me.

Entering the speak easy felt like stepping into a bygone era, an escape from the harsh realities of the outside world. The low hum of voices intermingled with the soulful tunes of the jazz band, creating an atmosphere thick with intrigue.

The main room, adorned with plush velvet curtains and dimly lit chandeliers, housed an eclectic crowd. Dapper gentlemen in tailored suits clinked glasses with elegant dames adorned in flapper dresses. The air buzzed with anticipation, fueled by the potent concoctions crafted by the skilled mixologists behind the mahogany bar.

I was ignoring, Robbie, some salt-and-pepper haired, Jewish, New York gangster. I promised him a shippment of my finest booze but business has been slow as late, especially with Charles dead.

As Robbie's relentless calls persisted, the speak-easy served as both refuge and prison. Each ring of the telephone echoed through the concealed corridors, a reminder that im falling through on my side of the deal. So I finally picked up, however, not in the mood.

Robbie's voice crackled through the phone, each word laden with a distinct New York accent that carried the weight of his reputation. The scent of cigar smoke seemed to permeate through the receiver, a hint of arrogance underlying every sentence. He was a man who navigated the labyrinthine streets of the city with the swagger of someone who had seen it all.
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"Robbie, how many times do I have to tell you? These things take time," I growled, frustration evident in my voice. "I can't conjure up a shipment like a rabbit out of a hat. Be patient."

Robbie's response crackled through the phone, his tone unyielding. "Artie, you've been pushing this for too long. My patience is wearing thin. You know what happens when deals don't go as planned."

I clenched my fist, restraining my irritation. "You don't need to remind me, Robbie. This is the last time. After this, we're done. Clear?"

The line went silent for a moment, the tension palpable. "Clear, Artie. But make sure it's worth it."

The call ended, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. The darkened corners of the speak-easy provided a temporary sanctuary, but my thoughts were consumed by the impending clash with Robbie.

I needed to cool down, so I went to the infamous "red room". A room in my speak easy known for its more "sexual acts".

As I settled into the plush velvet chair, Bunny, my favorite burlesque dancer, adorned in feathers and sequins, began her tantalizing performance. The room became a symphony of dim lights and the seductive rhythm of the music. Yet, in the midst of this intoxicating atmosphere, Dorothy's face flickered before my eyes like a haunting mirage.

Bunny moved with grace, her body a mesmerizing dance of temptation. "Artie, you seem distracted tonight. Everything alright?" she inquired, her sultry voice cutting through the jazz notes. I nodded, a forced smile playing on my lips, attempting to mask the turmoil within.

The sultry notes of the jazz saxophone now seemed to echo with an undertone of something deeper, something that transcended the boundaries of the speakeasy. Frustration simmered beneath the surface as the two worlds collided – the allure of Bunny's dance and the haunting purity of Dorothy's gaze.

"Put on your clothes," I instructed Bunny, my voice cutting through the muted music. Confusion etched across her face as she complied with my request. "Artie, what's going on? You've never interrupted my performance before," she questioned, concern lacing her words.

I hesitated for a moment, torn between the different worlds that now clashed within me. "I've got some business to attend to, Bunny. I appreciate your understanding," I replied, my tone curt, the weight of conflicting emotions heavy in the air.

As Bunny dressed herself, I tossed a generous tip onto the small stage. "This is for your troubles," I said, my eyes avoiding hers. In that moment, the lines between fantasy and reality blurred, the weight of the contradictions pressing down on me. The speakeasy, once a haven of escape, now mirrored the tangled mess of my own thoughts.

Another call shattered the moment, this time from Robbie's annoying associate, Tony. Tony is one the worst people. The kind of person who thinks cause he hangs with the big dogs, that makes him a gangster. He doesn't do anything but pussy behind Robbie. A real gangster gets his hands dirty, not uses his hands to dial another man's number. Tony was a fucking idiot. The abrasive tone grated on my nerves as threats reverberated through the receiver.

"You better get this done, Artie. In New York, we don't play games. You owe us," the voice barked.

I bit back my anger, the stress mounting. "This will be the last time, understand? Your threats won't change that!"

I didn't have time to start a terf war with another group, especially not Robbie's. If not I would've told Tony to fuck himself.

His words, comparing Chicago gangsters to the purportedly more efficient methods of New York, only intensified my frustration. What the fuck does New York have? I'll tell you, rats-Rats like Tony

I hear the phone ring again and this time I beg for God to kill me right there and then. "Can't I get a moments peace? Robbie's busting my fucking balls right now" I say to myself before hesitantly answering my phone.

To my luck-It's Charlotte.

"Artie, I need you tonight," she pleaded, her desperation palpable. The stress of the evening nudged me toward seeking solace in her company.

We agreed to meet off the highway, shadows concealing our rendezvous. We've danced this dance before. She calls me saying she's horny and we meet in her car, that I bought by the way.

As Charlotte emerged from the shadows, dressed provocatively in sheer lingerie and makeup crafted to my liking, I couldn't help but imagine Dorothy in that very attire. I wondered how she would look in sheer stockings and a bright red lip, with her big brown eyes staring at me through her mascara adorned lashes.

Rain-soaked asphalt scenting the air, our bodies entwined. Charlotte was good at what she did and she definitely did her hob at releasing my stress. She got on top and took control however, in an unintended slip, I called her Dorothy. Charlotte immediately got off of me and started hurling curses my way and hitting me, each word holding the weight of her unrequited love.

"Why can't you love me, Artie?" she screamed, her sobs resonating in the confined car. Her fists, once hitting with force, grew softer with each choked sob. The echoes of her pain reverberated in the hollow chambers of the car.

"I can't love you because of the life I lead, you know that, Charlotte," I confessed. Her tearful gaze met mine, a storm of emotions flickering between us.

"But you have time for her! That Negress Maid!" Charlotte's words cut through the silence, the anguish in her eyes mirroring her anger. Her tears, now an unspoken accusation, mingled with the raindrops tracing a chaotic pattern on the car windows.

I rubbed my temples, attempting to quell the storm of emotions within me. The cigar i pulled from my pocket and lit flickered to life, casting fleeting shadows on her tear-streaked face. I know it's bad but I started thinking about when Dorothy cries.In the quiet aftermath, I left her in the car, a wad of cash beside her, a silent acknowledgment of the transactional nature of our connection.

Stepping out into the rain-soaked night, the droplets merged with the cobbled street. The city, veiled in the haze of rain, was so silent, finally providing the peace I longed for all night. Hours passed as I walked through the deserted streets, the wet pavement mirroring the cascade of thoughts flooding my mind.

A park bench, soaked from the heavy rain, became an impromptu homestead. Amidst the solitude of the rain, I lay down on the cold wet bench.Sleep found me on that park bench.