These Streets Run Red

Through the wall, Maeve could hear the singing – drunken and mostly off key and sounding like far too much fun. It was New Year’s Eve for God’s sake; the Trans-Pacific war had been over for two years, relations between the United States and the Unified Asian Nations were healing, and from all reports, 1947 was forecasted to be the best year ever for New York City. The last place that Maeve should have been was behind the scenes of her own party. 

It would have been forgivable if she was in the kitchen or the pantry, hurrying to resolve some sudden crisis with the wine and the canapes. But no, she was in the dingey hallway leading down to the cellar, whose trap door was currently being held open for her. Maeve sighed and smoothed her hands over her bright red party dress. Her perfection of a party was roaring in the next room, but business rarely gave a night off. Typical.

A tank of a man, the light glinting off his bald head, held a hand out to her and she took it, gingerly stepping down the rickety stairs. The basement was dimly lit, only a single swinging lightbulb for illumination. The swing cast moving shadows on the barrels and boxes filling the room, labeling the contents as ‘potatoes’ and ‘pickled herring’. Maeve would guess about half of them were accurate, the others filled with varieties of smuggled contraband. Some of them her father knew about – the rest were uniquely hers. There were three men in the room, two of them flanking the third, his hands bound behind a chair. His hair dripped with sweat, and he looked as if he had had a few run-ins with a brick wall before arriving for the evening. 

“Big Mike, go ahead and let the boys know we got him,” Maeve said to the massive man. He gave a grunt, shutting the trap door above her head. She took a few steps closer to the man in the chair. As much as she wanted to enjoy this, she would need to resolve the situation before anyone noticed she was gone from the party.

“You sure went through a lot of trouble trying to run from us, Nolan,” she said to the man in the chair, clasping her hands primly in front of her.

“Please,” Nolan wheezed. Maeve wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of his ribs were broken. Without taking her eyes off of him, she tugged off her white lace gloves, handing them to the man now standing on her right. He, in turn, placed a set of brass knuckles in her waiting palm. Nolan whimpered slightly. 

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Maeve said, dangling the small piece of metal from her fingers. “You knew what you were getting into when you ‘mislaid’ that shipment.”

“I didn’t know!” Nolan said. “It was an honest mistake.”

“Isn’t it funny how that honest mistake turned up in the hands of the NYPD a week later?” Maeve tilted her head to the side, and Nolan’s face blanched. 

“You have to understand where I’m coming from,” he spluttered. “I didn’t want to be a criminal forever.”

Maeve wrinkled her nose. “The good news is you’ll get what you want.” She leaned in close to him, smiling as he flinched back from her. 

“What you call crime,” she said softly, “I simply like to call family business. ” She kissed his cheek, her bright red lipstick leaving a perfect mark. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you,” she said to Nolan, straightening as she slid the brass knuckles over her fingers. “After all, you are one of the family.” 

Ten minutes later, Maeve took Big Mike’s offered hand and climbed back into the hallway. She tugged back on her lace gloves, covering the new bruises forming on her knuckles and frowning as she tried to rub a smidge off of her dress. She’d hate to show up looking less than perfect.

“You look lovely, Miss Malone,” Big Mike said. 

Maeve shot a dazzling smile up at him, straightening her back. She could hear the party again, growing more frantic as they chanted down to midnight. She slipped her arm into Big Mike’s. 

“Happy New Year, Michael. Let’s hope those animals haven’t drunk all my champagne yet.”