Midnight on Church Street…
A thick white mist blows from my lips as I exhale. Winter’s been especially brutal this year in Chicago. It’s a bitter cold, but it’s nothing the crew hasn’t seen before. Everyone’s dressed for the part, except, of course, for the man from the Bureau. With nothing but a wool suit and a fancy hat, my guess would have been that he’d never been north of Atlanta. He didn’t even have gloves on. Kept his hands stuffed so deep in his pockets it looked like he was about to put two new holes in his jacket. I almost felt bad for the bastard. Maybe I would have offered him the pair I kept in the trunk if he hadn’t made it known how much of a prick he was right off the bat.
“I don’t know how you Mickeys do things up here, but back home, the local cops know who’s in charge,” he’d said with a smug look on his face. “That’s me. This is my operation, and I didn’t take a train halfway across the fuckin’ country to have a bunch of Micks and Wops in blue fuck it up. Hear me?”
So fuck him. Let him shiver.
“Wh-, wh-, where the fuck are they?” he said through chattering teeth.
“They’ll be here soon, Agent. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Fuck you, don’t worry about it. Shit! I can’t feel my fuckin’ nose.”
I hold back a smirk. The “they” he’d been talking about were a pair of Cuban smugglers who’d been running rum all over the states for the past year. They’d done a good job so far staying out of the spotlight. I’ll give the man credit, Agent Sunshine had actually done some decent detective work in finding them out. His real name was Bradley, but one of the rookies had said he was a barrel of sunshine after our first introduction and the name stuck. Still, if the stick up his ass hadn’t stopped him from climbing out of the car with me to talk to my boys, he’d already know that the Cubans had gotten here half an hour ago. So again…fuck him.
I check my watch. In two minutes the car down the road will flash its lights like we planned, and we’ll be off to the races. And there it was, two flashes. “Here we go,” I say, flashing my own in response.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Finally.” It takes him a few tries to work the handle on the door with his numbed fingers, but he’s out stomping his feet on the curb as quick as he can be. I get out and let out a sharp whistle to the truck parked behind us. It’s cargo doors swing open and a quartet of cops hop out, pulling revolvers and night sticks from their holsters and belts. I see a similar sight from across the intersection. We all start to make our way down Church Street.
It’s four doors down on the left with a couple bruisers standing guard at the top of the stairs leading down into the party below. They see us, and one hurries downstairs while the other casually turns away and starts walking down the street away from us. A couple of my boys make to go after him but I call them back. “Let him go. Get inside.” Sunshine seems annoyed at the order but he’s too miserable out here to interject.
The first squad heads down the stairs while the sergeant takes his around the back. The officer in front kicks the door open, and we storm the place. I hear a roar of music and voices, but they all come to a stunned halt as we pour through the entrance. The mood of the crowd switches from jovial to panicked when one of the doormen draws a pistol and gets a knock to the face from a club and collapses against the wall, holding a broken nose.
“Th-, th-, this is a raid!” Sunshine tries to call out over the clatter of voices. A sea of suits and night gowns are being herded by my boys toward the base of a stage where a jazz band is standing awkwardly, unsure of what to do with their instruments. “I am Agent John Bradley of the Bureau of Prohibition. Y-, you are all…under arrest…for the sale and purchase of alcohol, f-, f-, forbidden by federal law!”
“Yeah, good job,” I say, patting Sunshine on the back. “Alright, boys, get these folks dressed and send ‘em on their way.” I turn to the crowd. “Party’s over. Go home.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lieutenant?”
“Police work.”
“These people are breaking the law!”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Look, Agent, I’ve got eight men and about a hundred upset drunks in very tight quarters. And some of those drunks have guns.” I start to brush the snow off Sunshine’s jacket. “Now, personally, I’d rather not bleed to death in some basement because you’d like to arrest every John and Jane in the city for trying to have a good time. So, I suggest we find the guy running this place and the amigos delivering it’s hooch, so we can all go home feeling happy for ourselves. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Lieutenant, I will remind you that I am leading this raid, and that you and your men are under my command. Now, if you worthless blues won’t do your jobs, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Sunshine draws a revolver from his hip with a trembling hand that’s taken on a worrying shade of blue. He makes his way through the crowd and comes to a table in a corner of the establishment. A trio of black men, playing cards in their hands, look up at him.
“Alright, up, the lot of you. You’re under arrest.”
“We heard you,” says one, a huge man with a voice deep as thunder.
“Get up, boy. Or don’t they teach you respect in whatever kitchen you came up in?”
The man who’d spoken stands, towering over Sunshine, whose head barely reaches the other man’s shoulders. The other two start to stand up too, knives visible in their waistbands. Sunshine looks over his shoulder at me and calls out “Lieutenant, I need some men over-” and a single punch from the big man sends him to the floor, out cold.
A series of gasps escapes from the thinning crowd, and I make my way casually over to the corner. Sunshine’s head jerked so hard when the ounch connected that his hat flew halfway across the dance floor. I look down at him, then up to his attacker. “Evening, Harvey.”
“Evening, Lieutenant,” He answers back.
“You know, I’m gonna have to arrest you.”
“I wouldn’t blame you. He was being an asshole, though.”
“He’s new in town.” I look to the sergeant. “Harvey here got spotted jaywalking. Make sure he sees the inside of a cell for…” I look to Harvey, “…three minutes?”
“I think I can do five.”
“For five minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant calls back. Harvey and his men walk to the sergeant, donning their winter coats, and head up the stairs with him.
“Hope you aren’t leaving too many bloodstains on my floorboards, Lieutenant,” I hear a woman’s voice call from across the room. I look and see you. You’re wearing a fur coat over a silk dress, black on black. I can see you’ve got fishnet stockings running up those long legs. Blond hair frames a face punctuated by red lipstick and dark eyeshadow. A string of pearls sits over your cleavage, shining in the light. You’re gorgeous, but I’ve still got a job to do.
“Your floorboards, ma’am?” I step over Sunshine and walk in your direction. My path’s obstructed by a maze of cocktail tables loaded with half-finished drinks and still-smoking cigarettes. “Isn’t this Dave Fietti’s place?”
“Dave Fietti doesn’t exist, babe.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, that’s news to me.” I come to a stop in front of you. You raise up a cigarette on the end of an ivory holder.
“Got a light, Lieutenant?” Your voice is breathy and low. I don’t know if you’re trying to be sensual on purpose or if it just comes naturally to you. I produce a box of matches from my pocket, tugging off a glove with my teeth. I pull out a match and strike it, a bright flame erupting between the two of us. You lean in, your cigarette taking light, staring at me with big green eyes as you inhale. The tobacco catches its cinder and you blow the smoke away from my face and turn around, heading behind the bar. “Let’s talk in my office.”
I wasn’t expecting this, that’s for sure. I stuff my gloves into my pocket and whistle to one of my men, Jack, who follows as I make my way after you. A narrow hallway leads past a kitchen and a storage room stacked to the rafters with flasks and barrels of wine, rum, beer and another half dozen varieties of liquid vice. I see a pair of Hispanic men leaning against some barrels, casually smoking cigarettes as we pass. We’re definitely in the right place. You open a door at the end of the hallway and step inside. I follow a few paces behind you.
A fine rug adorns the floor before a massive mahogany desk. It’s neatly organized with an ashtray to one side and a telephone on the other, with a few picture frames facing away from me. To the left of the room is a bar stocked with a selection of liquors in clear crystal bottles and various glasses stored on a lower shelf. The wall to the right is dominated by a large oil painting of a jazz band in the middle of a performance. After a quick inspection I see that it’s a painting of this very establishment.
“A little privacy, please,” you say to the uniform behind me.
“Guard the door, Jack. Holler if you see any more of this fine woman’s associates making their way down the hall.”
“Aye, Lieutenant,” he says with an Irish drawl, stepping out and closing the door behind him.
“You like it?” you say, indicating toward the painting.
“Makes me wonder just how long you’ve been here.”
You smile and say “You may never know.”
I make a slight grin and scratch my chin. “The thing is, ma’am, you’ve got men with guns, more hooch than a navy in that store room, and not to mention a Prohibition agent on the floor in the ballroom. I’m not entirely sure why we’re talking here, but it looks like Fietti’s about to go out of business.”
“I told you, babe, Dave Fietti isn’t real. He’s made up to keep you little boys running in circles. I own this place, and you’ve gone and spoiled a perfectly lovely and profitable evening.” You pull off your coat, hang it up on a post in the corner, and take a seat in the tall backed leather chair behind the desk.
“You do know that by sunup all that liquor’s gonna be running down the drain, right?”
“No, sweetheart, I don’t think it will be.”
“Is that so?” I’m amused now, and I’ve decided to humor you. “Mind telling me why that is?”
“Because if your crew doesn’t clear out and let my customers back in, I’m gonna have to make a phone call.”
“Lawyers and gangsters don’t scare me, Miss…?”
“Call me Nancy,” you say, taking a long drag on your cigarette. The smoke drifts up into the ceiling, trapped there.
“…Miss Nancy. So, if you’re done taking up my time, I think this evening’s gone on long enough.” I turn and head for the door.
“Guess I’m calling Nucky, then.”
I stop and turn. “And am I supposed to know who that is?”
You stand up, picking up the telephone, and come around and seat yourself atop the front of the desk, legs crossed. “Nucky’s short for Enoch, as in Enoch Price, mayor of Chicago.”
I laugh at that. “You’re gonna call the mayor of Chicago? By all means, go ahead.”
You lay down your cigarette across the ashtray and start to dial on the rotary. You put the receiver to your ear, “Hello? Can you connect me to Mr. Price in the Hamilton Suites, please? Thank you.” I’m still smiling when you reach over and turn around a picture frame next to you. The photo is of you and a large, portly man, holding a glass of brandy. It takes a moment for me to recognize him. I feel a cold pit in my stomach, like someone had grabbed a snowball from off the street outside and made me swallow it whole. You see the dread on my face and you smile brightly as I hear a muffled voice speak into your ear.
“Nucky? Oh hi, darling, how are you? I’m doing just fine. I’m just calling to confirm that you’re still coming to Church Street tomorrow night. You are? Lovely. I’ll have everything ready for you, then. Have a wonderful night!” You make the exaggerated sound of a kiss into the transmitter and hang up the receiver. “Nucky comes here every Thursday night with his secretary. Has been for some time now.”
You take up your cigarette and pull another drag while you look me over. “So,” you start, “what am I going to do with you?”
You wait for a reply, but I don’t have one.
“Well, it’s clear you should probably start with an apology.”
I swallow, take off my hat, and scratch a sudden itch on my scalp. I hold the hat against my leg and look back up into your eyes. “I apologize for ruining your evening, Miss.”
“Nancy.”
“Miss Nancy-”
“No ‘Miss’, just Nancy.”
“I’m sorry, Nancy.”
“There, now isn’t that better? So much less formal. I feel closer to you already.”
“I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends. Now, if you don’t mind, I think my boys and I should get out of your hair.”
I make to leave, but you call out “I’m not done with you yet, Lieutenant.” I stop, and turn to look at you again. “An apology is nice, but…I don’t think that’s going to cut it.”
“And what will?”
Your red lips curl into a smile, and I start to think that I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a pair of fangs behind them. “How about you make me a drink, for a start?”
I trudge to the table of drinks. “Any preference?”
“I trust your judgement.”
I open a bottle and smell it. A pleasant aroma rises out and I pour the rum into a glass. I bring it over and you take it, your fingers brushing against mine, and I step back. You take a sip, grinning at the quality, and follow it with another drag.
“Aren’t you hot, Lieutenant? Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?”
I set my hat down on the desk and take off my coat, hanging it from the same post you placed yours. I make my way back in front of you and see you chewing your lip.
“Now what?” I say.
“Oh, I have an idea.” You uncross your legs, and the split in your dress comes open. I can see that your fishnet stockings end halfway up your thigh, and that you aren’t wearing anything else above them. Your voice is soft as the silk of the dress clinging to your frame, but I can hear the threatening power of a lioness behind the words “Take off your clothes.”
You take another sip from the glass, and extinguish your cigarette as you watch me remove my suit coat. I feel like I’ve already lost my dignity, so I drop it to the floor. My revolver sits in the leather holster I have strapped over my torso. I take it off and place it on the desk next to you. I can smell your perfume, subtly sweet. Stepping back, I unbutton my vest, feeling your green eyes crawl up and down me as I work. The vest comes off, and falls down on top of the coat. I discard my tie and shrug off my suspenders so they hang from my waistband. I undo my shirt, pulling it off and letting it drop.
You look me over like a fine meal, and beckon me closer with a finger. I step to you and you say “You can put the holster back on.” I do as you ask, the leather rough against my skin. “Mmm…” You hold up the glass to me and I take it. A patch of lipstick is on the brim where you’ve been sipping. “Go on,” you say. “My treat.”
I down what’s left of it in one tilt and you pull me in and kiss me. You push your tongue into my mouth and reach a hand down to my crotch. I react to your touch, silently cursing myself for it. You start to kiss my neck, rubbing your hand over my manhood. I reach down and push your hand away. You pull your lips from my neck and swing with your open hand, slapping me across the face. I glare at you, but I don’t make a move. You reach up and grab my hair, and push me down. I drop to my knees and you spread your legs, pulling my face between them.
I kiss the top of your mound, and hear you sigh. I work my way down, kissing your flesh along one side, the bottom, and up the other in a circle. I run my tongue from the base up to the clit and linger there. You tighten your grip on my hair as I run my tongue up and down. You groan, tilting your head back and closing your eyes at the sensation. I spread your lips with my thumbs and push my tongue into you.
“Ah…”
I run it in and out, and your warm thighs rub against my ears as you rest your legs on my shoulders. You’re bracing yourself on the desk with your open hand, rocking my head back and forth with the other that’s still gripping my hair. You open your eyes and look down at me, and see me staring right back at you. Your eyes harden and you jerk my head away. I grunt with pain and back up as you stand.
“Get on the desk.”
I take your place, leaning against the edge as you undo my pants. They drop to the floor, and you bend over at your waist, taking me into your mouth. You wrap your lips around me tightly, rapidly running up and down my shaft. You suck as you pull back, making your lips smack as they come off the head, then push back over me to do it again and again. I brush your hair over to one shoulder, resting my hand on the back of your head as you work me. I start to make slow thrusts and my cock throbs as I feel you gag around it.
“Oh…” escapes my lips, and my leg starts to shake as the aching builds inside me. You pull back, wrapping a hand around my shaft, then linger on the head, and give it one last kiss. You stand upright, and push on my chest so I lie back on the desk. You climb up and straddle me, pulling your dress up and over your head, tossing it aside. You have on a leopard-printed brazier that you work to unclasp. It comes loose, and you shrug it off. Your breasts hang free beneath your necklace of pearls. I run a hand up your side and take one in my grasp, massaging it, pinching your nipple, as you take my cock and press yourself onto it.
You slip your flesh over mine, and the warmth is the perfect relief from the bone chilling cold outside. You put your hands on my chest, gripping the straps of my holster, and work my cock the way you like it. Your hair brushes over my face as you lean in to me. We kiss each other hard, and you ride me at a quicker pace.
You sit back up, bouncing heavily. The sound of your cheeks clapping against my thighs fills the room, and you start to cry out “Oh, yes… Oh, fuck!”
Picture frames are falling over. The telephone tumbles off the side of the desk. Our shared glass slips over the edge and shatters.
Your pussy clings to my cock, the evidence of your arousal soaking between my thighs. You run your hands up your body, stopping one at your mouth, where you press down on your lower lip with a finger. The other hand runs up through your hair, pulling it back tightly as the sensations build.
Your breasts are swaying in time with your rise and fall. There’s an ache building inside me. I grasp your hips and urge you to go harder. You oblige me, and the desk quakes beneath us, groaning with the effort of staying upright as you fuck me like you think the Rapture’s coming in the morning.
I reach a hand back up to your breast, and I sit up, putting my mouth over the other, running my tongue over your nipple as I suck it. I reach around you with my other hand and run a finger around the rim of your asshole.
“Oh…God…” you struggle to say as you get close. I push my finger in, and you grab me by the throat, pushing your lips to mine, riding harder and faster.
You let out a muffled scream into my mouth, and you start to rock your hips back and forth against my cock as I feel the orgasm spread through your being. The motion and contraction of your flesh pushes me past the point of no return, and I follow your lead.
We sit there, in a lovers’ embrace, our animosity forgotten for the moment while the post orgasmic peace of mind washes over us. You break away first, kissing me on the cheek, then on the lips. “I guess tonight wasn’t a total loss,” you say. You lift yourself up on your knees, and I fall out of you, slick with cum, yours and mine. You reach over and open a drawer, pulling out a cigarette and a match. You light it, and take a long drag, blowing the smoke up above us.
There’s a knocking at the door. “Is…is everything alright in there, sir?”
You let out a laugh, and look down at me, running a hand down between your breasts.
“Thanks for the ride, Lieutenant. See you around.”
Fin
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/u95lst/midnight_on_church_street_mf_historical_fiction