Moonshine

Chapter One

When I was younger, my pop wanted me to take up police work. At parades, I would be perched up on his shoulders with my small finger pointing at the rows of marching men. Crimson and gold uniforms flashed by us. White confetti littered the streets while horns were raised, blaring with fanfare. When the police officers came on through, Pop would say in his deep, but mild German accent, "See them? There goes a bunch of honorable men. You'd do fine in a position like that one day."

Seventeen years later, I stared down at his bullet ridden corpse with the pistol still smoking in my hand. I wondered if he thought we were so honorable then.

The rest of that day was spent in a dingy building somewhere. For hours, a cig was nestled between my fingers, poisonous wisps blurring my vision. The skin underneath my eyes became outlined with dark lines, and my head was only supported by one weakened—and guilty—hand. The shaking stopped, but my mind kept replaying that moment over and over.

That's when a fellow showed up beside me. His hair was dark, disheveled. His clothes showed signs of age. He wore a smile, and I couldn't tell whether it was meant to be mocking or comforting.

And his eyes . . . there was something odd about the eyes. They were sort of auburn, scorched with a slight hint of crimson. The next thing I knew, he put his hand on my back, congratulating me on a job well done. 

That night I'd met my first demon.

And much to my misfortune, that was also the night I became a Whispie—something I'd regret a few years later.

It was on a June night in 1925, five years from the night I became a Whispie. The city lights were ablaze everywhere you turned, and the sound of parties and dances were heard from every street corner, every building. Where there was a party, the intoxicating stench of alcohol followed. I had my hands in my pockets for warmth even though the evening temperature wasn't all that bad. My new partner, Ben, stared at me like he was going to say something. I stared back at him, but I didn't know what to say. This was his first time on the "Special Force", and I had no words of comfort for him. Yep, they had just stuck him with me, hoping that I'd 'enlighten him', or something along the lines of that. Good thing he didn't need enlightenment—or so I thought. 

"You ready, Bobby?" he asked.

"I think the better question is, are you ready, Ben? I mean, you don't have to be here if you don't want to. This ain't a walk in the park, and—"

"Oh I can do it! I'm no coward."

He said that, but he wasn't hard-boiled either. The poor fellow had the heebie-jeebies. It was written all over his pale face. He needed a drink before attempting this. 

The two of us hurried over to our destination, quicker than the rats on the street. I grabbed his hand and pulled him against the brick of the old building just below the steps and away from the lamp light. I wiped the sweat from Ben's hand on my coat. What were the guys back at headquarters thinking? Busting into a bigshot bootlegger's domain was never easy, and I didn't need Ben spooked.

Two young ladies, both flappers, made their way to the place near us. We kept ourselves quiet. Once we heard the door shut we revealed ourselves to the artificial light. I pressed down on my hat to cover my eyes a bit. Ben still shook.

"Pretend it's a regular party, and you'll do fine," I assured him. His expression relaxed a little. I knocked on the door. It swung open almost instantly, and as expected, we were greeted to a pair of pinstripe-suited men.

They looked the two of us over with dark, near black eyes. Scowls were on their faces, their muscles tensed, but I knew they wouldn't do anything unless we gave them a reason to. Half the time the ones that answered the door were the weakest of the bunch anyway. When we got to their boss, that's when we had to worry. Still, the way they looked at us with such inviting eyes, Ben's expression was everything but right. His body recognized something irregular with the two fellows in front of us, but his mind was still trying to figure it out.