The Soft Touch

Every grift costs more than it pays.

Image generated by Midjourney. Prompt by the author.

Liberty City. 7 June, 1934.

I straightened my tie and checked my hair in the reflection of the marquee glass outside the Forge Coliseum.

It was the night before the grudge fight between Larry Gaines and George Godfrey and all the beau monde were out in their best tuxedos and glittering gowns to attend a banquet honouring the two athletes. I slipped behind a couple as they approached the Coliseum’s polished brass doors, hanging back just enough to be mistaken for one of their group, but the cop at the door was no slouch.

“Hold on there,” he said, his hand firm on my chest. The crowd streamed past us, throwing glances in our direction. So much for blending in.

“This is a respectable crowd, Burback,” the cop said. “Blow off into the gutter. These nice people don’t need your kind in here.”

“Mackenzie, come on,” I said, reading his name off his badge. “I’m not here on business. I have an invitation.”

Invitation. A word that carried a second meaning for those in the know. Constable Mackenzie’s eyes flickered, just for a second.

“Who’d invite a mope like you to this shindig?” he asked. “Dressing up all fancy doesn’t make you one of them.”