Cigarette smoke danced in the air, a manifestation of the two men’s boredom presented in pretty white wisps. Five hours had passed since they had parked across the street from the fading brownstone. 

And during that entire time, Reat, the older of the two, had the case file and report playing on repeat in his mind.

Ernest Paterson. Mid-thirties, approximately 6 foot 1, 140-150 pounds, lean build. No friends, no family. Described as having an air of ‘calculated loneliness’ surrounding him. 

Multiple calls to the New York Police Department reporting peculiar behavior on the part of the subject, as well as expressing words of concern and, in some cases, fear, have forced the NYPD to take special precautions to maintain the safety and well-being of the community. 

September 13, 1939, NYPD asks Brooklyn Private Investigations, for help identifying Paterson as an immediate threat or not. 

Surveillance for Paterson had begun two weeks ago, a week after Reat and his partner, Will Stitches, had accepted the station’s request for their services, and still, they had yet to even see the guy. But they always knew when he was home.

A dark silence had fallen between the two men, only broken by the monotonous pounding of nails against hardwood floor escaping Paterson’s apartment. 

“The tire swing is gone,” Will said out of nowhere. “Joe.”

“What?” The older man asked, confused.

“Look,” Will urged, pointing at the pepper tree. Joe snapped out of his thoughts to take the binoculars from his partner’s outstretched hand. “He took it down.”

“It was just there… Didn’t even see him do it. Strange,” Joe furrowed his dark straggly brows. “Log it.”

Will nodded, already scribbling a recount of the strange behavior into his notebook. 

Silence fell between the two of them once again, no pounding this time though, it seemed Paterson had finally gone to bed.

“Let’s make tracks,” Will said out of nowhere, taking the car out of park. “I’ve gotta be home by 0300, or Sal’s gonna be bustin’ my chops again.”

“Alright,” Joe muttered, straightening in his seat and putting his black fedora back on, hiding his unkempt hair. He took one last drag of the cigarette before tossing it out the cracked window.

What the hell is he building in there?

…

Two weeks later. Downtown Brooklyn. 

At the office of Brooklyn Private Investigations. 

Will shuffled through the file once again, making Joe sigh. “Still the same as the last time you looked through it, Rook. Put it down, would you?” He asked in an exhausted voice. “You’re making me nervous with all your pacing.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? We’ve only got two weeks left before we have to deliver the verdict.”

“Not this again.” Joe ran a hand down his face, a lack of patience in his tone. 

“No, listen! What if we’re looking at this thing all wrong,” Will urged. “This whole time we’ve been doing stake-outs, and taking testimonials. How can we expect real results without putting in the effort?”

Joe sighed. He knew the boy was right, but crossing this line could mark the fall of BPI’s reputation and respect in the community. 

Joe paused. What am I even talking about? 

“You’re right. I didn’t go to France in ‘17 just to get screwed over back home by some formaldehyde-sniffing freak.” Joe said, tossing Will the keys. “We’ve got two hours before he’s back from the post office. You’re driving.”

The two rushed to the car, and in good time, made it out of the parking lot and onto the main road, heading uptown, on the same route they took every surveillance day. 

Once they arrived outside the brownstone, they wasted no time walking up the steps and giving the door a quick knock. Joe leaned towards Will and lowered his voice, “Anyone asks, we knocked for ten minutes and had no answer. Got that?”

“I hear you loud and clear, sir.” He replied with a knowing look. 

“Good,” Joe muttered before he knelt down, taking the lock-picking kit out of his coat pocket and working on getting the door open. “And…” He twisted his hand around as he spoke, drawing out the motion. “There we are.” An audible click rang through the crisp air. 

“Nice.”  

Joe rose with a serious look on his face, his hand ghosting over the silver door handle. “We’re just going to see what he’s building. That’s it. Alright, Rook?”

Will nodded. “Fine by me.”

The door clicked open and instantly a rancid smell filled their nostrils. The two covered their noses in sync. 

“Woah. That’s awful.” Will stepped back outside for a moment, his eyes closed as he focused on keeping his homemade lunch down. 

Joe spared him a brief glance before continuing his journey inside. With awe, he took in the pigsty that was Paterson’s apartment. 

From floor to ceiling, towers of clutter created a maze out of the apartment. Slivers between the columns just barely exposed more of the space. 

He followed the already-made pathway to the kitchen, where open containers of food were spread across the tiled floor, painting the white a flurry of different colors, mostly greens, and browns. 

With a scowl, he pushed forward. To where the smell was most potent. 

A gag ripped through Joe’s chest as soon as he entered the room.

Is that a- 

Joe’s eyes widened. It took him a few seconds to piece together what the red jello-like mush was, but the hundreds of thick and rusted nails that had been hammered into the floor in between it fed his imagination.

“Will, come get a look at this.” He managed to get out as he left the room, his throat closing up as burning stomach acid rose up the column. “Will?” A sharp pinch in his neck made Joe freeze, before the corners of his vision darkened, and his knees buckled, sending him to the floor. 

...

Joe awoke with a groan, bright white invading his vision. After a few seconds, he managed to acclimatize to the change in brightness. 

Will sat restrained to a chair in front of him. Panic raced through Joe’s body, and he immediately dropped his gaze, to the thick cords of fraying rope wrapped around his midsection.

“What’d you think was gonna happen? Coming in here.” He heard from a masculine voice behind him. “Unannounced. Uninvited.” He punctuated each word with a tightening of Joe’s restraints. Paterson.

The man crossed the floor towards Will, his arms swaying, and whistling a familiar tune under his breath. “Terribly irresponsible of you two.” He spoke out in his smooth southern drawl. “And now, you’ll have to suffer the consequences.”

“Sir,” Joe drew Paterson’s attention back to him. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let us go. We’ve been in close contact with the NYPD, they’re the ones who hired us to look after you.”

“Look after me?” Paterson replied in an incredulous tone before he barked out a laugh. “That’s what y’all call that up here?”

“We just want to help you,” Will finally spoke up. “We’re worried about you.”

“Worried about me?” Paterson laughed before his eyes dulled and his tone became serious. “What about your wife, Willie?” Joe met Will’s widened eyes with cold ones and shook his head. To react was to encourage.  

“How do you-” Will’s desperate tone was interrupted by Paterson’s rambling. As the two spoke, Joe began to fiddle with the fraying rope, with a particularly thin segment.

“Sally, is it? Think of her? Oh, and you wouldn’t want poor little Miss Rosie gettin’ hurt either, would ya?”

“You keep my family’s names out of your filthy mouth!” Will shouted, his resolve finally breaking. Joe dropped his head with a sigh. 

“Now, now. Let’s remain civil here, Gentlemen.” A sly smile appeared on Paterson’s thin lips. Suddenly a symphony of sirens became audible in the distance. Paterson’s look turned frantic. “Damn you! No. I won’t have my art defiled because of a couple of gumshoes.” 

It was as if the world slowed, as an ear-splitting bang cut through the air, and Joe finally managed to get the rope to snap. He jumped forward, snatching the gun out of Paterson’s hands and not wasting a single moment to permanently disarm him.

“Nice one, ace.” Joe whipped around, relieved to hear Will’s voice, having feared the worst. Before his features fell as his gaze dropped to the crimson hole in Will’s shirt. 

Joe rushed over to the tied-up man, making quick work of his restraints. They fell with a quiet thud. 

“Help me up, would you?” Will forced out. Joe nodded and grabbed a hand, supporting most of Will’s weight as they made their way out of the apartment. They managed to make it down the first step before Will grunted, and let himself fall with a wince. 

“Go on, ace,” Will nodded his head in the direction of the car, the black finish making it barely visible in the dark.

“No. God, I’m sorry, Willie,” Joe pressed his lips together, fighting to keep his voice steady. A tear slipped down his cheek, making him drop his head. “I’m so sorry, pal.”

Will shook his head lightly,  “Hey, don’t worry about me. Rook like me, had it comin’ for a while.” 

Joe frantically shook his head, “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Will gave Joe a sad smile, weakly bringing a hand up to clap him on the shoulder. “Just take care of my girls for me, okay?”

“Of course.”

Will sighed, dropping his head back to take a look at the night sky. It wasn’t until the rise and fall of his shoulder stopped, and his eyes remained unblinking that Joe realized he had passed.

…

Joe smoothed a hand down his greying hair, nervously messing with the gelled-back strands as he checked over himself in the reflection of the black car. Once he felt satisfied with his attempt at a comb-over, he put on his hat and turned around, taking fast strides towards the dimly-lit home. 

A knock at the door roused Mrs. Sally Stitches from her mid-day nap. “I’m coming.” She called out, rushing over to check on Rosie before making her way to the door.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, opening the door, but it definitely wasn’t Will’s old partner wearing his Sunday best, looking as put-together as she’s ever seen him. 

“Sal, I won’t waste your time. I think-” He took a deep breath. Sally gave him a nod that told him to continue. “I think you should keep it.” Her features fell, knowing exactly what he was talking about, the reward for stopping Paterson.

“No,” She shook her head, causing her brushed-out curls to bounce around her oval face. The firmness in her voice said that there was no room for argument. “I don’t want your dirty money.”

Joe sighed, dropping his head. A few seconds passed before he began to nod, and moved to leave. As he turned, his eyes fell onto the Stitches family portrait, making him pause. Sally was sitting down, with Rosie in her lap, and Willie stood next to her with a warm hand on her shoulder, a soft smile permanently etched onto their beaming faces.

Joe huffed and turned around sharply,  walking back towards Sally with a frantic look in his grey eyes. “Don’t do it for me, or even for Will. Do it for her.” He said, pointing his gaze towards the toddler on her hip. Sally’s pained eyes met Rosie’s wide ones. Joe could see her resolve thinning, and gave her a lopsided smile. “Plus, Willie would be rolling in his grave if I didn’t give it to you.” 

“Yeah.” A sad laugh escaped her rouged lips. She dropped her head with a shake to hide the tears fighting to push past her lids. “God, I miss him.” 

“I do too,” Joe drew her in for a hug, his own eyes starting to water. “I do too, Sal.”

THE END