1955, Nazi-Occupied Los Angeles, Hollywoodland
Summer rolled in to the City of Angels same as it always did: hotter than hell. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, how the Land of the Free had lost her soul beneath the heel of a jackboot, ground up like a fag smoked to the butt, not that you could tell looking out the window. Then again, wasn’t that the nature of selling one’s soul to the devil?
Benjamin Carter always found himself waxing such depressing eloquence on his way to the office. His whole adult life was thrown into the Expeditionary Force, having bought the spiel hook, line, and sinker; be a man, be the best you can be! See the world!
What a crock of shit.
All Ben had to show for it was a tangle of tags and a case of medals that weren’t worth the metal they were stamped on. All the blood and guts for Lady Liberty to spread her legs for der fuhrer when he came a-knocking. The billboard across from Ben’s office window proclaimed the Inglewood Reclamation Initiative and ”realizing the American Dream with German engineering,” a flag waving overhead, the fifty stars replaced by the red, white, and the black hooked cross of the Reich. Ben’s tongue curled in distaste, resisting the urge to spit.
For once, he was thankful for the draft in the dreary office he called home, giving the slightest reprieve as the angry sunlight sliced through the shutters of Ben’s blinds. Slumping into his chair with the slightest groan of protest beneath his bulk, Ben shook out a cigarette from a case. He’d just put iron on the Calhoun case, pulling an all-nighter taking photos too spicy for Hustler even before the Reich’s puritanical publicists got a hold of the media. It wasn’t dignified work, but it kept the lights on.
Ben Carter, Private Investigator, had barely hung up his hat and lit up his smoke before his phone rang. Steely, stormy blue eyes flashed to the headset, rattling in the cradle with an equal measure of frustration and bone-gnawing exhaustion. The phone, like everything else, was kraut-made. On that principle alone, Ben let the damn thing ring.
As expected, it rang again, and Ben took his sweet time pouring a healthy sniff of scotch from the bottle he kept in his desk. He sampled the woodsy aroma appreciatively, sampling a taste and taking a puff from the cigarette pinched between his fingers.
Nothing like a Glenlivet for lunch, he mused, appreciating a ghost of a good mood before whatever was on the other side of the phone snuffed it out. Dusting ashes from the fag, Ben snatched up the phone,
“Carter PI,” Ben said, voice as smooth as a mile of gravel road.
“Good day to you too, Mister Carter,” came the chiding voice of Mrs. Abernathy, his landlady and the closest thing Ben had to a secretary, even if she did go through all his mail. She was an older broad who had her hayday in the roaring Twenties. If she was to be believed, she was once a fine catch in a flapper dress, not that anyone would know now.
“Missus Abernathy, charmed as ever,” Carter lied with his native country-boy drawl, raising a hand to his face to rub his eyes. “How may I help you today, ma’am?”
“Your rent is late. Again. You have until the end of the week to get it square before I find a tenant more stable, let alone respectable,” Abernathy sneered. It was the same old song and dance. Ben did a job, got stiffed on expenses, and barely skirted by. It beat the fancy pension of a policeman wearing those damned armbands, anyway. Who said integrity had a price?
Ben took another long drag on his cigarette before answering. Biting the old bat’s head off over the phone was an exercise in futility, anyway. “Of course, I apologize, ma’am. I’ll get you squared up before then. Is there anything else?”
“Matter of fact, there is,” Abernathy crowed.
Christ alive, here we go… Ben seethed inwardly, rolling his eyes.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mister Carter. Do you want me to send him up?” She asked in a manner that didn’t really imply a question.
“I actually just started my lunch hour, Mrs. Abernathy, perha– “
“Of course, Mr. Carter, I’ll send him right up,” Abernathy interjected. There was a shuffle of a hand over the receiver on the other end, “Mr. Carter says he’ll see you right away, sir. Fifth floor, first room on your right. Mhm. Guten tag, mein herr,” she called, sounding like everyone’s sweetheart great aunt. Why didn’t she ever talk to Ben like that?
“Make yourself presentable, you bum. No need to thank me.” Ever the one to get the last word in, Abernathy hung up with an ear-stabbing ring. Taking a deep breath, Ben surveyed his office. Lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets with no shortage of overflow, it was a cluttered and stuffy mess, enough to give any self-respecting librarian a conniption, but Ben knew his way around it. Reverse Filing, he called it. Bits and bobs from his last case hung on a cork-board on the far wall, emptied scotch bottles lined along the windowsill as improvised vases for wilting flowers. Faded photos from his tour in the Mediterranean hung in cheap frames, showing a younger and far prouder Benjamin Carter, back when his life meant something, and he had friends that didn’t rely on money.
Ashing his cigarette again, Ben rummaged through his drawers for a bakelite comb, smoothing his bedraggled blonde hair. He straightened his tie and tried to tug the rumples out of his shirt to little avail. He could hear the shuffle and stop of shoes up the stairs, then saw a silhouette fill the frame of the smoked glass that marked Ben’s office.
The knock was soft, but authoritative. Deciding to roll up his sleeves to hide the slept-in look of his shirt, Ben placed his comb back, fingers brushing the handle of his 1911. It was illegal to own, and he knew it. That didn’t stop every greaser, gangster, spick, and kraut from packing a heater of their own.
“It’s open,” Benjamin called, eyeing the door expectantly.
Summer rolled in to the City of Angels same as it always did: hotter than hell. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, how the Land of the Free had lost her soul beneath the heel of a jackboot, ground up like a fag smoked to the butt, not that you could tell looking out the window. Then again, wasn’t that the nature of selling one’s soul to the devil?
Benjamin Carter always found himself waxing such depressing eloquence on his way to the office. His whole adult life was thrown into the Expeditionary Force, having bought the spiel hook, line, and sinker; be a man, be the best you can be! See the world!
What a crock of shit.
All Ben had to show for it was a tangle of tags and a case of medals that weren’t worth the metal they were stamped on. All the blood and guts for Lady Liberty to spread her legs for der fuhrer when he came a-knocking. The billboard across from Ben’s office window proclaimed the Inglewood Reclamation Initiative and ”realizing the American Dream with German engineering,” a flag waving overhead, the fifty stars replaced by the red, white, and the black hooked cross of the Reich. Ben’s tongue curled in distaste, resisting the urge to spit.
For once, he was thankful for the draft in the dreary office he called home, giving the slightest reprieve as the angry sunlight sliced through the shutters of Ben’s blinds. Slumping into his chair with the slightest groan of protest beneath his bulk, Ben shook out a cigarette from a case. He’d just put iron on the Calhoun case, pulling an all-nighter taking photos too spicy for Hustler even before the Reich’s puritanical publicists got a hold of the media. It wasn’t dignified work, but it kept the lights on.
Ben Carter, Private Investigator, had barely hung up his hat and lit up his smoke before his phone rang. Steely, stormy blue eyes flashed to the headset, rattling in the cradle with an equal measure of frustration and bone-gnawing exhaustion. The phone, like everything else, was kraut-made. On that principle alone, Ben let the damn thing ring.
As expected, it rang again, and Ben took his sweet time pouring a healthy sniff of scotch from the bottle he kept in his desk. He sampled the woodsy aroma appreciatively, sampling a taste and taking a puff from the cigarette pinched between his fingers.
Nothing like a Glenlivet for lunch, he mused, appreciating a ghost of a good mood before whatever was on the other side of the phone snuffed it out. Dusting ashes from the fag, Ben snatched up the phone,
“Carter PI,” Ben said, voice as smooth as a mile of gravel road.
“Good day to you too, Mister Carter,” came the chiding voice of Mrs. Abernathy, his landlady and the closest thing Ben had to a secretary, even if she did go through all his mail. She was an older broad who had her hayday in the roaring Twenties. If she was to be believed, she was once a fine catch in a flapper dress, not that anyone would know now.
“Missus Abernathy, charmed as ever,” Carter lied with his native country-boy drawl, raising a hand to his face to rub his eyes. “How may I help you today, ma’am?”
“Your rent is late. Again. You have until the end of the week to get it square before I find a tenant more stable, let alone respectable,” Abernathy sneered. It was the same old song and dance. Ben did a job, got stiffed on expenses, and barely skirted by. It beat the fancy pension of a policeman wearing those damned armbands, anyway. Who said integrity had a price?
Ben took another long drag on his cigarette before answering. Biting the old bat’s head off over the phone was an exercise in futility, anyway. “Of course, I apologize, ma’am. I’ll get you squared up before then. Is there anything else?”
“Matter of fact, there is,” Abernathy crowed.
Christ alive, here we go… Ben seethed inwardly, rolling his eyes.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mister Carter. Do you want me to send him up?” She asked in a manner that didn’t really imply a question.
“I actually just started my lunch hour, Mrs. Abernathy, perha– “
“Of course, Mr. Carter, I’ll send him right up,” Abernathy interjected. There was a shuffle of a hand over the receiver on the other end, “Mr. Carter says he’ll see you right away, sir. Fifth floor, first room on your right. Mhm. Guten tag, mein herr,” she called, sounding like everyone’s sweetheart great aunt. Why didn’t she ever talk to Ben like that?
“Make yourself presentable, you bum. No need to thank me.” Ever the one to get the last word in, Abernathy hung up with an ear-stabbing ring. Taking a deep breath, Ben surveyed his office. Lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets with no shortage of overflow, it was a cluttered and stuffy mess, enough to give any self-respecting librarian a conniption, but Ben knew his way around it. Reverse Filing, he called it. Bits and bobs from his last case hung on a cork-board on the far wall, emptied scotch bottles lined along the windowsill as improvised vases for wilting flowers. Faded photos from his tour in the Mediterranean hung in cheap frames, showing a younger and far prouder Benjamin Carter, back when his life meant something, and he had friends that didn’t rely on money.
Ashing his cigarette again, Ben rummaged through his drawers for a bakelite comb, smoothing his bedraggled blonde hair. He straightened his tie and tried to tug the rumples out of his shirt to little avail. He could hear the shuffle and stop of shoes up the stairs, then saw a silhouette fill the frame of the smoked glass that marked Ben’s office.
The knock was soft, but authoritative. Deciding to roll up his sleeves to hide the slept-in look of his shirt, Ben placed his comb back, fingers brushing the handle of his 1911. It was illegal to own, and he knew it. That didn’t stop every greaser, gangster, spick, and kraut from packing a heater of their own.
“It’s open,” Benjamin called, eyeing the door expectantly.
