Note: I will tell you that this story takes place during a time when some words were thrown around a lot more often. To capture accuracy in the dialogue, some of these words may show up later. You have been warned.
Here’s the first chapter:
The room was almost pitch black, illuminated by two lights. One was the light of a crackling fireplace, and the other? The glowing end of a cigarette, planted between the lips of Art Oswald, young film director. Despite this limited light, the man sat in front of the fire in a large leather recliner, quietly reading a book as a jazz record crooned love songs around him. Bookcases lined his study walls, except for one solitary telephone sandwiched between two of them. These shelves contained nothing but classic literature from all over the world, neatly organized in a library some guests said rivaled Alexandria’s. Despite this vast trove of knowledge around him, Art had engrossed himself in How To Win Friends and Influence People, a newer book than some of the classics in his library. As his slender fingers were about to turn the next page, Art’s phone began to ring. He let out an annoyed grunt as he forced himself up from his chair. He shuffled over to the phone, snatching it away from its hook.
“Congratulations, Oswald! The Scorned’s Wail won the Oscar for Best Picture.” Art recognized the cheery voice of his producer, Howard White.
“That’s what you called me for?” barked Art, his cigarette dropping out of his mouth.
“Well… yes, I’d thought you’d like to know,” sputtered White. “Your third Oscar at your age, well, that’s just plain impressive!”
“And I could not care less about what some random suits think about my work! Not to mention you ruined my reflection time for that drivel! Good night, Mr. White!” Art slammed the phone back on its hook. Art made sure to deliver a good stamp to the cigarette, burning a hole in his Persian rug, before returning to his faithful post in front of the fireplace. He lit another cigarette and returned to his book. That was the life of Art Oswald. When not feverishly capturing one of his wonderous stories on screen, he preferred the quiet solitude of his study over the brilliant flashiness of the Hollywood lifestyle. Art drew another burdened puff of his cigarette before closing the book. He rose up again and placed the book in its on the vast shelf. But instead of picking up a novel or any of the famed writings in his collection, he opted for a small, worn scrapbook wedged in between Think and Grow Rich and Alice in Wonderland.
The scrapbook was bound with rough leather and had no label on any part of the cover. Art returned to his chair and opened the book. A single business card fluttered to the ground. One would expect such an old, well-worn scrapbook to contain many a photograph, but this one was almost empty!
There was only one ragged photograph sandwiched between the last page and the cover. It featured two little boys, both no more around the age of five or six, in front of a farm. The one on the left had messy raven hair, obscured by a large cap, and was tanned from hard play outside. He was donned in a simple white shirt and shorts held up by suspenders. The boy on the right, however, was an African-American boy with curly black hair and a dark complexion to match. His outfit was a less glamorous pair of patched-up denim overalls. Despite their differences, the boys had an arm around each other, grinning widely for the camera. Art took out the photo and stared at it intently before drawing his attention to the small business card now laying on the floor.
“JACK J. SCHULTZ — PROFESSIONAL PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR,” declared the card. Art picked up the card and looked at the back, where he found a phone number. He might be just the help I need, Art thought to himself. He made his way over to the telephone, and began to dial.
“Hello, is this Mr. Shultz? Yes, this is Art Oswald. No, I don’t care about the Oscar— I’d like to meet with you about a special matter, not blather on about award ceremonies, okay!? How does tonight at Angel’s Alley sound?”
Angel’s Alley was a bustling nightclub, frequented by Hollywood’s elite. On stage, a composer played one of his award-winning showtunes, accompanied by an actress with the voice of a songbird. On another end of the dimly lit club, several actors engaged each other in spirited games of billiards. Finally, there was the bar, where rowdy men celebrated their new Academy Awards with a few beers.
Art sat alone at the bar, making sure there were at least five seats between him and anyone else. He quietly sipped from a glass of wine, gazing at the photograph still in his hand. Deep in thought, he felt someone take a seat next to him. He turned an ireful gaze upwards to see who dared to enter his lonesome presence. His gaze met one pair of crooked, spectacled eyes that gazed back. Those eyes belonged to a rather goofy looking man with a bushy mustache compared to Art’s neatly groomed strip of hair. And to top it all off, the man had a brilliant crown of brown, curly hair.
This man extended his hand towards Art. “Jack Shultz, P.P.I.. You rang, Mr. Oswald?”
Art ignored the man’s gesture and instead placed the photograph on the counter, sliding it towards Shultz. “I need to find this man,” Art said as he pointed to the black boy on the right.
“With all due respect, sir, I think that’s a boy,” Shultz said as he drew his hand back in embarrassment and peered at the photo.
Art ignored his comment and kept talking. “His name is Sidney Jones. He was my best friend back home in Kansas. That is, until his family decided to move to Harlem.”
Shultz lit a cigar and took a puff. ”And about what year did they leave?” He questioned.
“If my memory serves me right, it was the Summer of ‘23.”
Shultz pensively puffed again. “So you’re telling me that you want me to find a negro kid who you haven’t seen in almost thirty years, who was last heard to have moved to the other end of the country!? I’m sorry, Mr. Oswald, but that’s simply not in my jurisdiction, nor is it my forte. Personally, I’m more about finding killers, thieves and rapists.”
Art sighed. “Well, who can help me out? You have to know somebody.”
Shultz’s eyes lit up. “As a matter of fact, you’re in luck! I have a cousin named Chester who lives in the Bronx. He might be just the man you need to see.” Shultz handed Art another business card, near identical to the one from earlier, albeit with a different name and number.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve never been in this place before. Might as well make good use of the time and see if I can finally snag a date with Judy Garland. She can ignore my letters, but she can’t ignore me in person!”
And with those words, Shultz departed for the stage. Art returned to sipping on his wine, wondering what he should do next.
“Congratulations, Oswald! The Scorned’s Wail won the Oscar for Best Picture.” Art recognized the cheery voice of his producer, Howard White.
“That’s what you called me for?” barked Art, his cigarette dropping out of his mouth.
“Well… yes, I’d thought you’d like to know,” sputtered White. “Your third Oscar at your age, well, that’s just plain impressive!”
“And I could not care less about what some random suits think about my work! Not to mention you ruined my reflection time for that drivel! Good night, Mr. White!” Art slammed the phone back on its hook. Art made sure to deliver a good stamp to the cigarette, burning a hole in his Persian rug, before returning to his faithful post in front of the fireplace. He lit another cigarette and returned to his book. That was the life of Art Oswald. When not feverishly capturing one of his wonderous stories on screen, he preferred the quiet solitude of his study over the brilliant flashiness of the Hollywood lifestyle. Art drew another burdened puff of his cigarette before closing the book. He rose up again and placed the book in its on the vast shelf. But instead of picking up a novel or any of the famed writings in his collection, he opted for a small, worn scrapbook wedged in between Think and Grow Rich and Alice in Wonderland.
The scrapbook was bound with rough leather and had no label on any part of the cover. Art returned to his chair and opened the book. A single business card fluttered to the ground. One would expect such an old, well-worn scrapbook to contain many a photograph, but this one was almost empty!
There was only one ragged photograph sandwiched between the last page and the cover. It featured two little boys, both no more around the age of five or six, in front of a farm. The one on the left had messy raven hair, obscured by a large cap, and was tanned from hard play outside. He was donned in a simple white shirt and shorts held up by suspenders. The boy on the right, however, was an African-American boy with curly black hair and a dark complexion to match. His outfit was a less glamorous pair of patched-up denim overalls. Despite their differences, the boys had an arm around each other, grinning widely for the camera. Art took out the photo and stared at it intently before drawing his attention to the small business card now laying on the floor.
“JACK J. SCHULTZ — PROFESSIONAL PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR,” declared the card. Art picked up the card and looked at the back, where he found a phone number. He might be just the help I need, Art thought to himself. He made his way over to the telephone, and began to dial.
“Hello, is this Mr. Shultz? Yes, this is Art Oswald. No, I don’t care about the Oscar— I’d like to meet with you about a special matter, not blather on about award ceremonies, okay!? How does tonight at Angel’s Alley sound?”
Angel’s Alley was a bustling nightclub, frequented by Hollywood’s elite. On stage, a composer played one of his award-winning showtunes, accompanied by an actress with the voice of a songbird. On another end of the dimly lit club, several actors engaged each other in spirited games of billiards. Finally, there was the bar, where rowdy men celebrated their new Academy Awards with a few beers.
Art sat alone at the bar, making sure there were at least five seats between him and anyone else. He quietly sipped from a glass of wine, gazing at the photograph still in his hand. Deep in thought, he felt someone take a seat next to him. He turned an ireful gaze upwards to see who dared to enter his lonesome presence. His gaze met one pair of crooked, spectacled eyes that gazed back. Those eyes belonged to a rather goofy looking man with a bushy mustache compared to Art’s neatly groomed strip of hair. And to top it all off, the man had a brilliant crown of brown, curly hair.
This man extended his hand towards Art. “Jack Shultz, P.P.I.. You rang, Mr. Oswald?”
Art ignored the man’s gesture and instead placed the photograph on the counter, sliding it towards Shultz. “I need to find this man,” Art said as he pointed to the black boy on the right.
“With all due respect, sir, I think that’s a boy,” Shultz said as he drew his hand back in embarrassment and peered at the photo.
Art ignored his comment and kept talking. “His name is Sidney Jones. He was my best friend back home in Kansas. That is, until his family decided to move to Harlem.”
Shultz lit a cigar and took a puff. ”And about what year did they leave?” He questioned.
“If my memory serves me right, it was the Summer of ‘23.”
Shultz pensively puffed again. “So you’re telling me that you want me to find a negro kid who you haven’t seen in almost thirty years, who was last heard to have moved to the other end of the country!? I’m sorry, Mr. Oswald, but that’s simply not in my jurisdiction, nor is it my forte. Personally, I’m more about finding killers, thieves and rapists.”
Art sighed. “Well, who can help me out? You have to know somebody.”
Shultz’s eyes lit up. “As a matter of fact, you’re in luck! I have a cousin named Chester who lives in the Bronx. He might be just the man you need to see.” Shultz handed Art another business card, near identical to the one from earlier, albeit with a different name and number.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve never been in this place before. Might as well make good use of the time and see if I can finally snag a date with Judy Garland. She can ignore my letters, but she can’t ignore me in person!”
And with those words, Shultz departed for the stage. Art returned to sipping on his wine, wondering what he should do next.
No voting on this one, folks! The next chapter should arrive some time next week. In the meantime, discuss! Tell me what you think!
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