Socks

“Whad ya haven,” says Kitty, the daughter of the owner, Kit Burns. You think of the irony of having a joint that pits a dog against a rat being run by a greaseball named Kitty. Who names their kid Kit when you’re off the cob name is Kitty?
“None of your Mickey Finn rubbish you chisel the others wif, gimme a snipe and whatever passes for giggle juice these days,” you say in the very fashionable vernacular of New York City. Your time in the not-so-great war, got you set up for work as a copper and the 1930s came quickly as you worked your way through the NYPD.
You spend a few hours in the Rat Pit and feel on the right side of stoned. Checking for your folding green you peel off a twenty and point it in the direction of Kitty. There are two dogs fighting in the pit which is about twenty feet across and surrounded by a wooden eighteen-inch wall. As you are trying to get Kitty’s attention one of the dogs snaps the neck of the other. There is a riotous roar and you see the real money man of the show. Kitty’s husband aptly named Jack the Rat.
Punters were offering him quarters. Jack took a coin and procured a rat from about his person. The cheers go up. Jack without dramatic pause bites the head off the rat and eats it. You have seen this before and somehow, it’s getting dull. Kitty snatches your green and shrugs you off. Never any change from this Kitty cat.
Setting up prostitutes as informants was hard work. It paid off a few weeks ago when you started to bleed Godsend Mary. Mary helped you get closer to Joseph ‘Socks’ Lanza. The go-to man for the Seafood Workers Union. The SWU was nothing but a strongarm gang, legitimised through the union movement and you were betting nabbing him would put you in the spotlight.
You see that Mary has left a red kerchief on the top right-hand side of her window. You slip on past the popular brothel and look around you, looking for unwanted followers. You mold yourself into the shadows and pick at a loose brick about head height. Behind it is a letter:
Socks at the wharf with three goons. Be careful. M.
The wharf can only mean one place. Fulton Fish Markets. The walk was short down to Pier Seventeen. The place naturally smells like fish as you approach the 100-year-old structure. Brown brick buildings, common of the time, lined the wharf and surrounding streets.
There were single-level retail shops next to four-story processing factories. Hundreds of species of fish were sold every day and Socks Lanza had his fat fingers in every pocket.
You walk towards the Meyer Hotel, Socks HQ, and notice some of Sock’s goons holding up the wall with one hand and a lit snipe in the other. You suspect both heavies are packing heat so you avoid them.
Out the back, a cleaner is emptying trash into a big steel bin. You take the opportunity and slip into the building. In the first room there are hotel uniforms neatly stacked on a rack, each one pressed and clean hanging on wooden coat hangers. No one says a thing as you look like you have every right to be there. You feel something heavy hit the right side of your skull. Blackout.
“Is dis da copper Godsend Mary ratted on?”
“Sure is. Socks wants the word wif im. Then maybe he becomes fish food later.” Both goons laugh at your possible fate.
You hear voices and feel ropes cutting your hands. Tied to a chair you notice your feet are free of restraints. A door squeals open then emits a lesser squeal as it shuts.
The sound of a lock being engaged and then footsteps tapping away from you might mean you are alone. You open one eye slowly. Blood from the whack to your head has dried. You see that there is no one in the room.
Taking a deep breath through your nose you recognise that Fulton Fish Market smell. At least they didn’t move you. You seem to be in a clothes closet. There are fancy furs and one-hundred-dollar jackets neatly arranged at the end of the room.
After painful minutes of moving your wrists around in the rope, the blood from the cuts let your hands slip out. You stand up and then immediately sit down again. Blood loss has made you dizzy. You stand up again, slowly, and try the door.
Locked.
You look around and walk to the line of jackets and start searching pockets. Nothing of course. You then notice one of those new fancy steel coat hangers. That might do the trick. You throw the expensive jacket on the floor and unwind the hanger. It turns into a long, thin and flexible steel rod.
The door has a glass window above the frame that opens outwards. You stand on the chair, open the window and pop your head over the window frame to look outside the room. No one was there. You see the big brass key with an ornate loop at the end. Making a hook on the hanger you slide it down, and after a few attempts the hook takes hold and you slip the key from the hole. You lift the hanger up and step off the chair. Time to shake a leg. Key in the keyhole, open door.
Unlocked.
Almost to safety. You step out of the room and notice you are still in the Meyer Hotels. Socks HQ. You turn and start to walk smoothly towards the stairs to freedom.
“That’s him, Socks, that’s the copper see,” a voice from behind you snaps. Turning you see Socks Lanza pointing a large silver heater your way. You hear the primary explosion of the bullet, and then you hear no more.