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Chapter 29: The Quiet of Night, the Stir of Souls
🕑 Added 2024-11-28 15:20:43 +0000 UTCOut in the western suburbs of Chicago, inside a small bar with a "CLOSED" sign hanging outside, the interior was filled with smoke and gloom.
A bartender and four men in suits were quietly drinking, their cigarettes adding to the haze.
“Who knew that drunk bastard would be so fragile? Now look at us! Not only did he die on us, but he also ruined our plans and made the cops tighten their grip. Damn it! Goss, pour me another,” one of the suited men cursed, slamming his empty whiskey glass onto the counter.
These four men were the unlucky group whose heist at the jewelry store had been derailed by Tony Windis's drunken intrusion. Unbeknownst to them, Tony’s death was actually caused by Josh finishing the job later. The group genuinely believed they had accidentally beaten him to death that night.
“You’ve already drunk two bottles of my good stuff! Do you even know how rare real Kentucky bourbon is these days?” Goss, the bartender and owner of the bar, retorted irritably.
Besides running the bar, Goss also handled logistics for the group—securing weapons, cars, and fences for their loot.
“Two bottles? Come on, Goss, it’s just whiskey!” the man snapped, clearly annoyed.
“Just whiskey? You’ve got some nerve saying that! Take a look around, Cody. It’s not like two years ago anymore. A bottle of this stuff goes for 200 bucks now—if you can even find one!” Goss grumbled, pouring another glass for himself.
Though Prohibition had long ended, the war had driven alcohol prices sky-high again. Official whiskey distilleries were barely producing for civilians, as most supplies were requisitioned by the military.
A single bottle of legitimate bourbon could fetch a fortune, with black-market prices starting at $200.
Of course, cheaper options existed—moonshine from makeshift distilleries could go for as little as $10 a bottle. But the quality was questionable, and the risk of poisoning was ever-present.
“Who cares? We made a killing last time, didn’t we?” Cody argued, shrugging off Goss’s complaints. For someone in their line of work, living large was part of the deal.
“Made a killing? Really? Sure, you hit a couple of jewelry stores, but let’s be honest—how much of it was actually worth anything? Even the gold was just 18-karat junk. You barely got any platinum, and most of the stuff was silver. Altogether, the haul might be worth ten grand tops. And even if you could sell it all, you’d be lucky to pocket two grand each after cuts,” Goss shot back, his frustration spilling out.
The truth was, the team had been targeting low-tier jewelry stores that only stocked entry-level goods. Their loot—while plentiful—lacked real value. Even after fencing the goods, they were left with scraps compared to their expectations.
Cody fell silent, clearly aware that Goss’s assessment was spot-on.
“Alright, fine! Goss, crack open another bottle. It’s on me,” Louis, the de facto leader of the group, interjected.
Goss raised an eyebrow but complied, pulling out another of his dwindling bourbon reserves.
“Thanks, boss!” Cody grinned, eagerly pouring drinks for everyone, himself included.
“This stuff won’t last forever. Soon enough, I’ll be stuck selling bathtub gin,” Goss muttered.
“Don’t worry, Goss. Things will turn around,” Louis assured him, raising his glass. Then he turned to his crew. “Frank, Dix, stay sharp. Once the heat dies down, we’ll hit something bigger.”
“I’m with you, Louis,” grunted Dix, the largest and quietest of the group.
But Frank, the youngest member, hesitated. After a moment, he spoke softly: “I think I’m done, Louis. I want out.”
The bar fell silent.
“Done? Why?” Cody blurted out, his voice laced with irritation. “You’re just gonna quit because of a little heat? You’re betraying us!”
“Cody, shut it!” Louis snapped before turning to Frank. “What’s going on, kid?”
“It’s Marcy. She doesn’t want me mixed up in this anymore,” Frank admitted hesitantly, referring to his childhood sweetheart.
“Marcy? Again with her? Why let some farm girl tell you what to do? Look at Vanna—she knows better than to meddle in my business!” Cody scoffed.
“Cody!” Louis shouted silencing him.
“Alright, Frank. If that’s what you’ve decided, I won’t stop you. But you know the rules. First, you forfeit half your cut. Second, if you ever sell us out, there will be consequences,” Louis said firmly, though his tone was understanding.
“Understood. Thank you, Louis,” Frank said gratefully.
Just then, a knock came at the door.
Everyone froze, their hands inching toward concealed weapons.
Goss gestured for calm and peered through the peephole. After a moment, he relaxed.
“It’s Corby,” he announced.
Hearing the name, the tension in the room eased. Corby was a well-known fixer in the area—a middleman for jobs, fencing, loans, and underground gambling.
Corby stepped inside, glancing around. “Louis, someone wants to meet you,” he said directly without beating around the bush.
“Who?” Louis asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Dr. Schneider. Erwin Linden Schneider. Ever heard of him?” Corby replied.
Louis’s eyes widened. “Schneider? The Schneider from Philly?”
The room fell silent once more, but this time, the tension was different. A name like Schneider carried weight, and whatever he wanted, it was bound to be big.
