Yonkers, New York, 1936
"Why did I get into this business?" Joe Galtosino grumbled sourly to nobody in particular as he looked over the multitude of bills on his desk. He had enough stashed to pay them and the rent this month, but that was just about it. For the tenth time that night he cursed Nick Falico for skipping town and leaving him with all his deadbeat clients. Even six months after the fucker had left, he was still trying to scrape out a living with the idiots he used to work for. The Depression just made things worse. Nobody was spending money to hire a detective these days when they were concerned with putting food on the table every day. He didn't even have the wives wanting him tail their husbands to check for mistresses any more. Even with the occasional special job he was barely paying his debts.
He was a tall, swarthy man with shoulders like a mountain gorilla and an imposing air. He was sort of handsome to those that liked their men on the rough side, his square jaw covered in a seemingly perminant growth of stubble, and a big mustache rested on his upper lip. His hair was cut short, starting to thin on top. A bad luck draw of genetics there, having not quite reaching 37 yet.
At the moment he was garbed in a cheap white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up and his tie undone and hanging over his shoulders, and his gray suit pants were somewhat wrinkled from a day's worth of walking. He looked every bit the frustrated, semi-broke detective. He blamed it on his ex-partner, a sleezy little man that'd ditched this operation to go consult for some radio show in California.
"FDR better get his shit together...or there better be a freakin' epidemic'a ghosts soon. Hell I'll take either one."