Friday, Sept. 1, 1933 [partly cloudy, seasonably warm, three-quarter moon]
Please post a brief description of your day until mid-afternoon. It should end with your reason for being at the Hudson Street Police Station, Hudson & Vandam Streets, Greenwich Village, Manhattan at 3:00 p.m.
Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Moderator: Gaffer
Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
"Two in the head, you know he's dead." <heh>
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Dexter Ford
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Like many days in the grimy city, the heat of summer lingers on, and Dex wipes his brow with a handkerchief before turning to face the slowly growling fan on the corner of his desk. The air flow wasn't much cooler, but at least it was...flowing. Dex chuckled as he banged the machine and the sound changed to a different pitch, but it seemed like it would survive another day. His partner, Joe, was out handling a case, so Dex has desk duty today from 9 until he had to head over to the police station for an appointment with Captain Boyd about 2 or so. Watching the clock wasn't going to get the paperwork done on his desk nor would it have a ringing phone be answered.
Normally all that would have been done by the new secretary they hired. Business was going well enough that they finally needed some office support and someone who could do some real clerical work. The secretary they hired a few weeks ago, Mrs. Porter, was off dealing with her sick son, a 2 year old tyke who is a handful and a half. Usually the lady down the hall in Mrs. Porter's building, whose name Dex forgot, handles the neighborhood kids for a few bucks a week. However, the lady down the hall is sick as well, something about eating meat that didn't sit well. Dex sighs and looks over some old case files that needed to be put away and had been collecting a fine layer of dust. Even with the current economic woes gripping the rest of the country, business for good PIs never went away.
Nothing much would happen until noon when lunch time decided Dex would call it an early day. Dex got his hat, coat, and slid his revolver into his shoulder holster, locking up the office before he headed to Flannigan's, the local "diner" down the street. It used to be a neighborhood bar before Prohibition started, but it had turned out a decent meal for a fair price and had picked up some of the local lunchtime crowd to keep it going through the "dry times" as locals happened to call the last few years. It was quieter at night, and Dex was pretty sure they had a speakeasy on premises, but he never dug too deep now that he was no longer a Prohibition Agent. A quick sandwich and a cup of coffee, and Dex was hopping the subway down to the Hudson Street police station for his "conversation" with Captain Boyd, his usual contact on the force.
They rehashed some cases Dex was working on, and it was about 3 pm when he was saying his goodbyes. Shaking Boyd's hand, they made a promise to get together in a couple days for dinner with their gals in tow. Dex knew Lila was in-between shows at the moment and itching to do some more dinners out, and even a bit of dancing, the latter of course being something Dex could do without.
Normally all that would have been done by the new secretary they hired. Business was going well enough that they finally needed some office support and someone who could do some real clerical work. The secretary they hired a few weeks ago, Mrs. Porter, was off dealing with her sick son, a 2 year old tyke who is a handful and a half. Usually the lady down the hall in Mrs. Porter's building, whose name Dex forgot, handles the neighborhood kids for a few bucks a week. However, the lady down the hall is sick as well, something about eating meat that didn't sit well. Dex sighs and looks over some old case files that needed to be put away and had been collecting a fine layer of dust. Even with the current economic woes gripping the rest of the country, business for good PIs never went away.
Nothing much would happen until noon when lunch time decided Dex would call it an early day. Dex got his hat, coat, and slid his revolver into his shoulder holster, locking up the office before he headed to Flannigan's, the local "diner" down the street. It used to be a neighborhood bar before Prohibition started, but it had turned out a decent meal for a fair price and had picked up some of the local lunchtime crowd to keep it going through the "dry times" as locals happened to call the last few years. It was quieter at night, and Dex was pretty sure they had a speakeasy on premises, but he never dug too deep now that he was no longer a Prohibition Agent. A quick sandwich and a cup of coffee, and Dex was hopping the subway down to the Hudson Street police station for his "conversation" with Captain Boyd, his usual contact on the force.
They rehashed some cases Dex was working on, and it was about 3 pm when he was saying his goodbyes. Shaking Boyd's hand, they made a promise to get together in a couple days for dinner with their gals in tow. Dex knew Lila was in-between shows at the moment and itching to do some more dinners out, and even a bit of dancing, the latter of course being something Dex could do without.
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Delores Brown
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Delores sighed heavily as she walked in the direction of Hudson Street Police Station. She'd spent the day chasing a bunch of no-hope stories of petty domestic squabbles, lost pets and toothless septuagenarians celebrating lives of wedded bliss. The latter would have been better if the old guy hadn't been trying to slide his hand up her skirt as his short-sighted wife rattled on about how in love they still were and how they only had eyes for each other. Her husband had an eye for something, that was for sure.
She came to the station and walked up the steps, ignoring the lecherous stares of the cops coming in and out of the building. She'd had plenty of offers, but turned them all down flat - no way was she becoming the talk of the cops' locker room. It was hard enough to get them to share information as it was; it would be far worse if they thought she'd put out in return.
Delores heard the town hall clock chime three 'o' clock as she pushed open the door and walked into the station. She saw Captain Boyd saying goodbye to a PI type out of the corner of her eye as she approached the main desk where the watch sergeant sat. The desk was tall, and Delores always felt like she was back at school when she approached it. "Hey Sarge," she said, "Got anything for me?"
She came to the station and walked up the steps, ignoring the lecherous stares of the cops coming in and out of the building. She'd had plenty of offers, but turned them all down flat - no way was she becoming the talk of the cops' locker room. It was hard enough to get them to share information as it was; it would be far worse if they thought she'd put out in return.
Delores heard the town hall clock chime three 'o' clock as she pushed open the door and walked into the station. She saw Captain Boyd saying goodbye to a PI type out of the corner of her eye as she approached the main desk where the watch sergeant sat. The desk was tall, and Delores always felt like she was back at school when she approached it. "Hey Sarge," she said, "Got anything for me?"
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FrankyEsposito
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Early morning in the Big Apple. Brooklyn is starting to stir and so am I. Siobhan doesn't wake up as I pull myself away from her, our sweat long-since dried. Is she the best thing that's ever happened to me or just one habit among many? I tend not to dwell on that question. I tend not to dwell on many questions. I stand in the doorway for a minute and watch her sleep; her red hair seems to glow in the moonlight. She hates it when I tell her she's beautiful. I tend to not dwell on that, either.
I'm up early because it's that day. Can it really have been ten years? The calendar isn't convincing, but the creak in my left knee never lies. Not about things like this, anyway. September first. Again.
It's a long ride up to Queens. I should be sleeping but my body won't let me. The drunk in the back of the car has no such problem. I don't have the heart to roust him out of there. Not my job anyway.
I find a street vendor selling "fresh" flowers and pay him too much money for a few. He's disappointed that I don't want to haggle over the price. No time for that today, bud. It's a yearly tradition, part of the September 1st ritual. She has to know who leaves them but she never lets on. When I get to the cemetery it's still early. I sit for a moment, thinking of ghosts, thinking of things best left unseen. Thinking of Vinnie and carefully not thinking of how he wound up here. I leave just as the sun starts to come up, knowing that she'll be here soon and not wanting to be in the way. Not wanting to dredge up old emotions, things best left buried. I stop by the apartment, slide the envelope under her door. It's not much, but it's all I can afford.
The cool morning quickly gives way to one of those rare New York days you have to feel to believe. Try to tell someone how blue and alive the Hudson is, how the grass in Central Park feels under your feet, what the laughter of the women on Park Avenue sounds like, or how the sunlight gleaming on the Chrysler building can make you catch your breath. Nobody -- except maybe another New Yorker -- will believe you. I live this day -- like every first of September -- for a dead man. Vincenzo Catalano loved this city in ways that just weren't natural, and taught me how to love it, too. It's a poor excuse, a lame ritual, a pale and sad tribute to the man. But it's better than drinking all day.
But even a day like this one must pass. At two, reluctantly, I put away the dregs of my impromptu luncheon on the grass, brush off my clothes, and head downtown. I've got some paperwork to do, then another day of protecting and serving, if that's what it is that I do.
I'm up early because it's that day. Can it really have been ten years? The calendar isn't convincing, but the creak in my left knee never lies. Not about things like this, anyway. September first. Again.
It's a long ride up to Queens. I should be sleeping but my body won't let me. The drunk in the back of the car has no such problem. I don't have the heart to roust him out of there. Not my job anyway.
I find a street vendor selling "fresh" flowers and pay him too much money for a few. He's disappointed that I don't want to haggle over the price. No time for that today, bud. It's a yearly tradition, part of the September 1st ritual. She has to know who leaves them but she never lets on. When I get to the cemetery it's still early. I sit for a moment, thinking of ghosts, thinking of things best left unseen. Thinking of Vinnie and carefully not thinking of how he wound up here. I leave just as the sun starts to come up, knowing that she'll be here soon and not wanting to be in the way. Not wanting to dredge up old emotions, things best left buried. I stop by the apartment, slide the envelope under her door. It's not much, but it's all I can afford.
The cool morning quickly gives way to one of those rare New York days you have to feel to believe. Try to tell someone how blue and alive the Hudson is, how the grass in Central Park feels under your feet, what the laughter of the women on Park Avenue sounds like, or how the sunlight gleaming on the Chrysler building can make you catch your breath. Nobody -- except maybe another New Yorker -- will believe you. I live this day -- like every first of September -- for a dead man. Vincenzo Catalano loved this city in ways that just weren't natural, and taught me how to love it, too. It's a poor excuse, a lame ritual, a pale and sad tribute to the man. But it's better than drinking all day.
But even a day like this one must pass. At two, reluctantly, I put away the dregs of my impromptu luncheon on the grass, brush off my clothes, and head downtown. I've got some paperwork to do, then another day of protecting and serving, if that's what it is that I do.
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
The intercom buzzes softly, then Gladys' voice chimes in, "Mr. Vilas? Mr. Unger to see you." She's quite nice, Gladys. I'm lucky to have such good help.
"Send him in, Gladys." The doorknob clicks and turns before I finish speaking. I push the sigh to the back of my mind and put on my best, most professional smile. Only one man I've ever met is at the door before being invited in, and that's my boss, Mr. Unger. I stand, smiling, looking like a million-dollar man ready for promotion.
"Mr. Vilas." He says flatly. He's too terse. No, don't think like that. He's excited, that's it. Eager to get down to business! That's him. Always wanting to... "We have a problem, Mr. Vilas, and I need you to take care of it."
"A problem, Sir?" Dammit! I sounded worried, not curious. He can tell!
"Yes. Albertson, on 6, was supposed to conduct a lunch meeting at the police station over lunch, but he's just phoned to say he's ill. You're familiar with the neighborhood organizations, right? Fill in for him."
It's not a question. And it's not exactly the golden opportunity to show my political skills, but it'll do. I'll take it. Mr. Unger and I walk up to Albertson's office and he hands me the speech notes. I read a few lines here and there, "Collaboration between police officials and neighborhood leaders is the key to..." Damn! Albertson writes better tha-- no! What you think about you bring about. I can write something like this.
It's only 10 in the morning. The meeting's not for another two hours. I've got time to write my own version of the speech. That'll show them what I can do! Make this into that golden opportunity!
Langdon worked hard, diligently, studied Albertson's speech carefully and assembled a short stack of note cards from which to speak. The meeting wasn't as full as he'd hoped. But his speech was well received. And better than Albertson's, for sure! It was 2.47pm, and Langdon stood around with various neighborhood leaders, mid- to lower-upper-level police, and their spouses sipping watery punch. He felt good. Accomplished.
"Send him in, Gladys." The doorknob clicks and turns before I finish speaking. I push the sigh to the back of my mind and put on my best, most professional smile. Only one man I've ever met is at the door before being invited in, and that's my boss, Mr. Unger. I stand, smiling, looking like a million-dollar man ready for promotion.
"Mr. Vilas." He says flatly. He's too terse. No, don't think like that. He's excited, that's it. Eager to get down to business! That's him. Always wanting to... "We have a problem, Mr. Vilas, and I need you to take care of it."
"A problem, Sir?" Dammit! I sounded worried, not curious. He can tell!
"Yes. Albertson, on 6, was supposed to conduct a lunch meeting at the police station over lunch, but he's just phoned to say he's ill. You're familiar with the neighborhood organizations, right? Fill in for him."
It's not a question. And it's not exactly the golden opportunity to show my political skills, but it'll do. I'll take it. Mr. Unger and I walk up to Albertson's office and he hands me the speech notes. I read a few lines here and there, "Collaboration between police officials and neighborhood leaders is the key to..." Damn! Albertson writes better tha-- no! What you think about you bring about. I can write something like this.
It's only 10 in the morning. The meeting's not for another two hours. I've got time to write my own version of the speech. That'll show them what I can do! Make this into that golden opportunity!
Langdon worked hard, diligently, studied Albertson's speech carefully and assembled a short stack of note cards from which to speak. The meeting wasn't as full as he'd hoped. But his speech was well received. And better than Albertson's, for sure! It was 2.47pm, and Langdon stood around with various neighborhood leaders, mid- to lower-upper-level police, and their spouses sipping watery punch. He felt good. Accomplished.
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Friday, Sept. 1, 1933 3:00 pm
The Hudson Street Police Station on the corner of Vandam and Hudson, though smaller than most stations in the borough of Manhattan, is still a busy place late on Friday afternoon – the Friday before the Labor Day holiday. Cops come and go, either bringing in collars to get them locked up before end-of-shift or heading back to their beats in Chinatown or around the New York University campus or among the narrow streets where artists and poets find cheap rent.
Lawyers clamor for access to their clients, waving writs and bond assurances. Wives and Mothers alternately berate or weep over wayward sons and husbands, while petty thieves, conmen and hookers scoff as they await booking. Citizens from all walks of life wait, patiently or fuming, for a chance to tell their story or make their complaint.
Desk Sergeant Homer Zann is being surprisingly patient with a woman who’s taking up too much of his time. Not that he’s a patient man by nature, but this dame certainly merits extra attention. Taller than average in a dark-red dress from a tailor that knows how to make the most of a voluptuous figure without being showy. Her dark complexion and flashing dark eyes are set off by a silver necklace and earrings with a stunning little hat perched amid her mane of night-black hair.
Even the miscreant husbands can’t resist a lingering glance, earning them extra venom from their long-suffering wives.
Not that the beauty is without venom of her own, her eyes glaring as Zann tries to placate her.
“Listen, Miss Hirt, I tell ya for the last time, the NYPD doesn’t have enough officers to go looking in alleys and parks for every guy who takes off. Times is tough and a lotta guys do the skip. I know, I know your brother’s different and you are very worried. But he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions. And you say there’s no evidence of foul play, so...”
[quote/Delores Brown]"Hey Sarge, got anything for me?" [/quote]
Zann turns to answer Delores Brown’s interruption with a stern look.
“Miss Brown, please, I am busy trying to help this young lady. In my station house, reporters gotta wait their turn just like everbody else.” He turns back to Miss Hirt, but she interrupts him.
“I think it is come to a pretty pass, Sergeant,” the acid drips from her words, “When the authorities of this city will not put forth any effort to help people of good family, even when we are not, I suppose, Lindberghs. Where can I turn?” her voice throbs and the flashing eyes glitter with unshed tears, “Who can help me, if not the police for which I pay good taxes every year? You are a reporter, yes?” she turns to Delores Brown, “Why does your newspaper not bring such failures to light?”
“Aw, listen, Miss,” Zann says, not unkindly, “It’s not that we don’t wanta help, just that we’re kinda thin on the ground, y’know? Have ya tried the hospitals? Maybe he had a accident.”
“Oh, Sergeant,” she answers, her breath catching in her throat, “I have tried not to think it. I don’t know that I could bear it.”
The Hudson Street Police Station on the corner of Vandam and Hudson, though smaller than most stations in the borough of Manhattan, is still a busy place late on Friday afternoon – the Friday before the Labor Day holiday. Cops come and go, either bringing in collars to get them locked up before end-of-shift or heading back to their beats in Chinatown or around the New York University campus or among the narrow streets where artists and poets find cheap rent.
Lawyers clamor for access to their clients, waving writs and bond assurances. Wives and Mothers alternately berate or weep over wayward sons and husbands, while petty thieves, conmen and hookers scoff as they await booking. Citizens from all walks of life wait, patiently or fuming, for a chance to tell their story or make their complaint.
Desk Sergeant Homer Zann is being surprisingly patient with a woman who’s taking up too much of his time. Not that he’s a patient man by nature, but this dame certainly merits extra attention. Taller than average in a dark-red dress from a tailor that knows how to make the most of a voluptuous figure without being showy. Her dark complexion and flashing dark eyes are set off by a silver necklace and earrings with a stunning little hat perched amid her mane of night-black hair.
Not that the beauty is without venom of her own, her eyes glaring as Zann tries to placate her.
“Listen, Miss Hirt, I tell ya for the last time, the NYPD doesn’t have enough officers to go looking in alleys and parks for every guy who takes off. Times is tough and a lotta guys do the skip. I know, I know your brother’s different and you are very worried. But he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions. And you say there’s no evidence of foul play, so...”
[quote/Delores Brown]"Hey Sarge, got anything for me?" [/quote]
Zann turns to answer Delores Brown’s interruption with a stern look.
“Miss Brown, please, I am busy trying to help this young lady. In my station house, reporters gotta wait their turn just like everbody else.” He turns back to Miss Hirt, but she interrupts him.
“I think it is come to a pretty pass, Sergeant,” the acid drips from her words, “When the authorities of this city will not put forth any effort to help people of good family, even when we are not, I suppose, Lindberghs. Where can I turn?” her voice throbs and the flashing eyes glitter with unshed tears, “Who can help me, if not the police for which I pay good taxes every year? You are a reporter, yes?” she turns to Delores Brown, “Why does your newspaper not bring such failures to light?”
“Aw, listen, Miss,” Zann says, not unkindly, “It’s not that we don’t wanta help, just that we’re kinda thin on the ground, y’know? Have ya tried the hospitals? Maybe he had a accident.”
“Oh, Sergeant,” she answers, her breath catching in her throat, “I have tried not to think it. I don’t know that I could bear it.”
"Two in the head, you know he's dead." <heh>
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Dexter Ford
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Dex shakes Captain Boyd's hand, then catches the small drama at the front desk with the pretty woman and the desk sergeant. It's hard not to overhear Sergeant Zann's booming voice since it seems pitched at a variety of people who seem to be standing about. Dex notices that Delores Brown is by the desk. Though he hadn't ever met the reporter face-to-face, her byline had stuck out in the paper and he had seen her about the station house before. When the woman seemed in need of his services, Dex stepped forward.
"Miss Hirt? My name is Dexter Ford, of the Ford and Morton Detective Agency. If the police can't help you, perhaps I can. If I can't, at least I might be able to offer some help."
"Miss Hirt? My name is Dexter Ford, of the Ford and Morton Detective Agency. If the police can't help you, perhaps I can. If I can't, at least I might be able to offer some help."
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
"Dexter Ford!" I emphasize each syllable with my charming, shy, smile. "Young miss, if you don't mind my intrusion, why I'd say you've just been offered the assistance of one of the best officers in the borough. In the borough, young lady!"
I stand tall, smiling broadly, if not confidently. My motives aren't selfish. Here's a beautiful lady who needs help finding her brother. I just hope she's telling the truth: that it really is her brother and not a boyfriend or husband. If I help Dexter and Dexter solves the case it's a win-win-win-win situation! Miss Hirt gets her brother back. Delores gets a juicy story. Dexter gets his name in the paper as a hero. I become the public servant who's willing to step in when no one else can or will. And maybe Miss Hirt will see that, too.
"May I call you Dex? You have the full," I pause for effect, repeating myself again, I've heard it's a way of making your speeches more effective "the full support of city hall. Anything you need to help find young Miss Hirt's brother, you name it. We at city hall value the lives of our citizens. When they suffer, we suffer. When they lose a loved one..." I sneak a small smile to Miss Hirt "... we lose a loved one."
Turning back to everyone around the desk, preparing to speak as though I were atop a presidential campaign stage, talking to hundreds of adoring supporters...
"If there's anything I can do to help, Mr. Ford, Miss Hirt, don't hesitate to ask." I reach into my jacket and hand everyone in arm's reach my calling card.
I stand tall, smiling broadly, if not confidently. My motives aren't selfish. Here's a beautiful lady who needs help finding her brother. I just hope she's telling the truth: that it really is her brother and not a boyfriend or husband. If I help Dexter and Dexter solves the case it's a win-win-win-win situation! Miss Hirt gets her brother back. Delores gets a juicy story. Dexter gets his name in the paper as a hero. I become the public servant who's willing to step in when no one else can or will. And maybe Miss Hirt will see that, too.
"May I call you Dex? You have the full," I pause for effect, repeating myself again, I've heard it's a way of making your speeches more effective "the full support of city hall. Anything you need to help find young Miss Hirt's brother, you name it. We at city hall value the lives of our citizens. When they suffer, we suffer. When they lose a loved one..." I sneak a small smile to Miss Hirt "... we lose a loved one."
Turning back to everyone around the desk, preparing to speak as though I were atop a presidential campaign stage, talking to hundreds of adoring supporters...
"If there's anything I can do to help, Mr. Ford, Miss Hirt, don't hesitate to ask." I reach into my jacket and hand everyone in arm's reach my calling card.
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Delores Brown
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
"Back off, boys!" snaps Delores, "Give the lady some room. Besides, this is my story..." She smiles at Miss Hirt, winningly, "I'd be happy to cover your story. Perhaps we can find somewhere private where I can get some background information?"
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Miss Hirt looks a bit overwhelmed at all these offers of help, smiling through misty eyes (though she also darts a look of triumph at Sergeant Zann).
Zann bristles at civilians usurping police authority: “Hold on there,” he says and beckons to a man in a rumpled suit, just coming in the door, “Say, Detective Esposito, you don’t look busy, maybe you can help Miss Hirt here. You and these other folks can use Interview Room One.”
Zann bristles at civilians usurping police authority: “Hold on there,” he says and beckons to a man in a rumpled suit, just coming in the door, “Say, Detective Esposito, you don’t look busy, maybe you can help Miss Hirt here. You and these other folks can use Interview Room One.”
"Two in the head, you know he's dead." <heh>
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
I shake my head and look from Zann to the stack of case files in my hands to the assembled crew. A politician, a society dame, a fluff reporter, and a private dick. Seeing as there's no bar around and they're lacking an Irishman anyway, I hustle them into the interview room. "I'll be right with you folks."
Once they're settled I make my way back out to Zann's desk. "So, Sarge, am I supposed to investigate Miss Hirt's complaint? Or just ring-lead the circus in there?"
Once they're settled I make my way back out to Zann's desk. "So, Sarge, am I supposed to investigate Miss Hirt's complaint? Or just ring-lead the circus in there?"
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
"Well, Detective," says Zann, nodding toward the interview room door you left open, "the city pays your salary to provide assistance to citizens in need. So I want you to assist those citizens, as needed." He drops his voice, leaning forward so only Franky can hear: "And keep your little circus outta my station, ka-peesh?"
Then he turns to the next person in line, "Attorney Durant, to what do I owe the pleasure of today's visit?"
In the interview room, Marlene Hirt has waited for one of the gentlemen to pull out a chair for her and the other to light the cigarette she inserts into a short ivory holder. When the detective returns and joins the group around the table, the lady begins her story.
“I am Marlene Hirt. My brother Alphonse is a writer and journalist. Not that you’ll recognize his name, he is an amateur, always one pointless scheme after another one.” She pauses and pulls a hanky from her purse which she twists in her hands as she talks.
“I think the police think me a fool. He is a grown man, as they say. But only... He is missing for a week now, and I cannot think where he is gone. Last Thursday he doesn’t come home. And I fear...” She sobs a bit and wipes at her eyes.
“Alphonse has been talking nonsense about moon-men and monsters in Brooklyn, and I worry that he has become unbalanced. What if he is lost or injured or locked away somewhere? I am desperate, you see. Desperate enough not to care about scandal. But I cannot inquire myself at the hospitals or the... the morgues. My nerves will not allow it."
Then he turns to the next person in line, "Attorney Durant, to what do I owe the pleasure of today's visit?"
In the interview room, Marlene Hirt has waited for one of the gentlemen to pull out a chair for her and the other to light the cigarette she inserts into a short ivory holder. When the detective returns and joins the group around the table, the lady begins her story.
“I am Marlene Hirt. My brother Alphonse is a writer and journalist. Not that you’ll recognize his name, he is an amateur, always one pointless scheme after another one.” She pauses and pulls a hanky from her purse which she twists in her hands as she talks.
“I think the police think me a fool. He is a grown man, as they say. But only... He is missing for a week now, and I cannot think where he is gone. Last Thursday he doesn’t come home. And I fear...” She sobs a bit and wipes at her eyes.
“Alphonse has been talking nonsense about moon-men and monsters in Brooklyn, and I worry that he has become unbalanced. What if he is lost or injured or locked away somewhere? I am desperate, you see. Desperate enough not to care about scandal. But I cannot inquire myself at the hospitals or the... the morgues. My nerves will not allow it."
"Two in the head, you know he's dead." <heh>
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
"Moon men, Miss Hirt? Well I can personally attest for the absence of such tomfoolery in my neighborhoods. Why just last week we completed a full censu-- err... Look, Miss Hirt, I'm sure your brother wasn't 'unhinged' as you put it." I cast a pleading eye at Dolores, asking her to play along, "See, journalists, well their job is to make everyday seem fantastical," he grimaces at his poor word choice, "That is to say, they make the regular world more exciting. Don't you think he could have just been making up stories for the papers?"
I do my best trying to reassure her, but it's not something I've ever been terribly good at. Weeping women just shut me down. Make it hard to think straight.
I do my best trying to reassure her, but it's not something I've ever been terribly good at. Weeping women just shut me down. Make it hard to think straight.
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FrankyEsposito
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Making up stories? Who is this guy? He's enough to get me seeing moon-men.
"Miss Hirt, I'm Detective Esposito. We're going to find your brother, but we need a little help from you. What's your brother's address? Can you give us a list of his friends, places that he frequents, that sort of thing? And a recent photograph would be very helpful."
"Miss Hirt, I'm Detective Esposito. We're going to find your brother, but we need a little help from you. What's your brother's address? Can you give us a list of his friends, places that he frequents, that sort of thing? And a recent photograph would be very helpful."
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Dexter Ford
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Dex follows the others into the room, holding out the chair for Miss Hirt and for Delores if she decided to take a seat, seeing the others have not done so.
Miss Brown, if you want to pursue the journalistic angle for this case go right ahead. However, I am sure everyone here could offer some assistance, even Mr. Vilas has his connections at City Hall.
Dex simply nods his head at Langdon's request to call him Dex. Once in the interview room, he leans against one wall, listening to Miss Hirt talk about her brother and his odd obsessions. Perhaps the kid has some issues, but before he could ask any more questions, Detective Esposito asked the key questions.
Dex pulls out a small notebook, unsnapping the band around keeping it closed, and a well worn pencil and begins to jot some preliminary notes into the notebook.
Miss Brown, if you want to pursue the journalistic angle for this case go right ahead. However, I am sure everyone here could offer some assistance, even Mr. Vilas has his connections at City Hall.
Dex simply nods his head at Langdon's request to call him Dex. Once in the interview room, he leans against one wall, listening to Miss Hirt talk about her brother and his odd obsessions. Perhaps the kid has some issues, but before he could ask any more questions, Detective Esposito asked the key questions.
Dex pulls out a small notebook, unsnapping the band around keeping it closed, and a well worn pencil and begins to jot some preliminary notes into the notebook.
Last edited by Dexter Ford on Wed Oct 21, 2009 1:51 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Delores Brown
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Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
Delores scribbles furiously, taking notes as the three men fire questions at Miss Hirt, pausing only to raising a questioning eyebrow at Langdon when he uses the word 'fantastical' to describe the journalist trade.
"Miss Hirt," she pipes up, "You said your brother is a journalist. Do you know which paper he writes for? And could I see his writing? He may have left a clue as to his thinking."
"Miss Hirt," she pipes up, "You said your brother is a journalist. Do you know which paper he writes for? And could I see his writing? He may have left a clue as to his thinking."
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
“I cannot think where he would be all this time. We have no family any more, except for our Uncle Jacob who we have not seen since father’s death fifteen years ago. Mother had died some time before. I know none of his friends these days; we move in different circles, you understand."
Turning to Delores, she replies to her question, "As I say, he fancied himself a journalist and historian, but to the best of my knowledge he never held a paid position. I am not certain about his writings, I had not thought to look for them. Alphonse was not the tidiest person.
“Find him, please. If you would make enquiry of the most likely places? Here is his card,” she finds it in her handbag and hands it to Esposito. “Of course, a photo, yes – I will try to find one. Here is one hundred dollars for your expenses and trouble, Mr. Ford. I will, naturally, pay any customary fees as well. I will be at Alphonse’s apartment Monday afternoon, anxious to hear anything that has been learned.”
Turning to Delores, she replies to her question, "As I say, he fancied himself a journalist and historian, but to the best of my knowledge he never held a paid position. I am not certain about his writings, I had not thought to look for them. Alphonse was not the tidiest person.
“Find him, please. If you would make enquiry of the most likely places? Here is his card,” she finds it in her handbag and hands it to Esposito. “Of course, a photo, yes – I will try to find one. Here is one hundred dollars for your expenses and trouble, Mr. Ford. I will, naturally, pay any customary fees as well. I will be at Alphonse’s apartment Monday afternoon, anxious to hear anything that has been learned.”
"Two in the head, you know he's dead." <heh>
Re: Friday, Sept. 1, 1933
"Well it seems to me a good place to start would be with amateur journalists and historians! Dolores, do you know of any groups or places an aspiring amateur journalist like Mr. uh," I turn to Miss Hirt, "I don't believe I caught your brother's name."
I straighten, walking around the room. Kinetic energy helps the mind work.
"You say you have little contact with your Uncle Jacob? Suppose your brother were to have received a letter from this uncle. Is it possible he may have gone to visit him without telling you?"
I straighten, walking around the room. Kinetic energy helps the mind work.
"You say you have little contact with your Uncle Jacob? Suppose your brother were to have received a letter from this uncle. Is it possible he may have gone to visit him without telling you?"
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