The Great Gatsby

Chapter One: An Unexpected Encounter

  A cool breeze drifted through the early morning mist. The leaves flit about the edges of the city sidewalks as if to greet the new day. The air was filled with the din of Model T's, honking, revving, and all the racket associated with the waking of New York City. Al smiled at the bustling skyline as he headed by foot to the local speakeasy. He hadn't had a pint in days and was ready to indulge in some prohibition promiscuity. He opened the door, and the familiar atmosphere of dingy furniture and wild music greeted his senses in a most welcome embrace. He smiled at the many familiar faces of patrons who frequented the establishment and made his way to a stool near the bar counter. 

"Half-pint sasparilla please," said Al to the bartender across the counter. It was good to be back in the old familiar club.

  After receiving his drink, he handed a few dimes to the bartender and took a seat at the stool nearest to the cabaret section of the establishment, which was alive with the roar of a band and the lively tapping of flappers' feet. He noticed two men in oversized Chambray suits make their way to the stools nearest his, so out of courtesy, he decided to greet them. 

"Good morning gentlemen," said Al, tipping his hat respectfully so as to make a good first impression. 

"Morning," the men replied in thick Boston accents as they got situated on their stools. They seemed to be in no rush to socialize, so Al let his attention drift to the flappers and dance band he so thoroughly enjoyed.

  As Al drank the last drops of his sasparilla, his concentration on the entertainment was interrupted by the voice of one of the men next to him. 

"That's a Grand National bank brooch you're wearing, if I'm not mistaken. Say, you wouldn't happen to have any connections to the place, would ya?" Al turned around to face them, and intrigued by the question, decided to answer it truthfully. 

"Why yes, I'm a barrowman; I pull wheelbarrows around town, transporting goods between businesses. One of my clients is the bank; I transport money between them and various local establishments." 

"Ah, well ain't that lucky," replied the man, "Bobby and I were looking for someone in your position." 

"What do you mean?" asked Al, confused as to what the man was getting at. 

"Seems like the kind of fella we need, let's give him the spiel, Markus," said Bobby. 

"I'm sorry", interjected Al, still very confused, "what exactly do you want of me?" 

"Can't say much about our operation here," replied Markus in a hushed tone, "but if you're still interested on Thursday evening at 8 PM, meet us in the alley behind Scrubb's diner."

  Before Al got the chance to formulate a response to this strange invitation, Bobby slid a small business card toward him. Al squinted at the overly ornate typeface printed on the card. It read 'Scrubb's Gourmet Diner, 5781 23rd Street, NYC', and below that was scribbled, 'Thu 8 PM SHARP.' Al had a million questions flitting about his head, but when he looked up from the card, he saw the Chambray coattails of one of the men disappear through the front door, leaving behind a sense of mystery and bewilderment in Al that he'd never known before.