It was a damp October night in 1940s New York, the kind where the city smelled of wet asphalt and cheap bourbon. Detective Jack "Iron Jaw" Malone leaned against a lamppost in Hell's Kitchen, his trench coat soaked through, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The call had come in an hour ago - a dame found dead in a tenement basement, throat slashed, no witnesses. Just another body in a city that didn't care.
Jack descended the creaky stairs, flashlight cutting through the gloom. The victim lay sprawled on the concrete, her red dress stark against the gray, blood pooling like spilled ink. A cheap locket hung around her neck, the only clue in the mess. He knelt, noting the precision of the cut - professional, not a barroom brawl. His gut told him this was no random hit.
Upstairs, the landlord - a wiry guy with shifty eyes - claimed he heard nothing. Jack didn't buy it. He pressed, his gravelly voice cutting through the man's excuses. "You saw something, pal, or you're next." The landlord cracked, mumbling about a tall figure in a gray suit slipping out after midnight. No name, just a shadow.
Jack hit the streets, tracking leads to a speakeasy on 42nd. The air was thick with smoke and jazz as he flashed his badge, grilling the bartender. A regular, Vincent "The Blade" Russo, fit the description - a enforcer for the Moretti mob. Jack's jaw tightened; he'd crossed paths with Russo before. The bartender slipped, mentioning Russo bragging about a "messy job" the night before.
Midnight found Jack staking out Russo's flop on the Lower East Side. Rain drummed the roof as he watched the window. A shadow moved inside, and Jack kicked the door in, gun drawn. Russo lunged with a switchblade, but Jack's fist met his jaw first, sending him sprawling. The fight was short - Jack's .38 pinned Russo to the wall.
"Who ordered the hit?" Jack growled, pressing the barrel to Russo's temple. The thug spat blood but spilled - Moretti wanted the dame silenced over a gambling debt. Jack cuffed him, dragging him to the precinct. The case was closed, but the city's underbelly churned on, and Jack knew he'd be back in the muck tomorrow. Another night, another requiem on the asphalt.
Jack descended the creaky stairs, flashlight cutting through the gloom. The victim lay sprawled on the concrete, her red dress stark against the gray, blood pooling like spilled ink. A cheap locket hung around her neck, the only clue in the mess. He knelt, noting the precision of the cut - professional, not a barroom brawl. His gut told him this was no random hit.
Upstairs, the landlord - a wiry guy with shifty eyes - claimed he heard nothing. Jack didn't buy it. He pressed, his gravelly voice cutting through the man's excuses. "You saw something, pal, or you're next." The landlord cracked, mumbling about a tall figure in a gray suit slipping out after midnight. No name, just a shadow.
Jack hit the streets, tracking leads to a speakeasy on 42nd. The air was thick with smoke and jazz as he flashed his badge, grilling the bartender. A regular, Vincent "The Blade" Russo, fit the description - a enforcer for the Moretti mob. Jack's jaw tightened; he'd crossed paths with Russo before. The bartender slipped, mentioning Russo bragging about a "messy job" the night before.
Midnight found Jack staking out Russo's flop on the Lower East Side. Rain drummed the roof as he watched the window. A shadow moved inside, and Jack kicked the door in, gun drawn. Russo lunged with a switchblade, but Jack's fist met his jaw first, sending him sprawling. The fight was short - Jack's .38 pinned Russo to the wall.
"Who ordered the hit?" Jack growled, pressing the barrel to Russo's temple. The thug spat blood but spilled - Moretti wanted the dame silenced over a gambling debt. Jack cuffed him, dragging him to the precinct. The case was closed, but the city's underbelly churned on, and Jack knew he'd be back in the muck tomorrow. Another night, another requiem on the asphalt.
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