Sleazy N' Easy

~~~

by S. T. Mortenson



This book is dedicated to:

my dearest friends, who sadly, got spoiled the ending by me because I couldn’t shut up about this fucking book.
~~~
This book is also dedicated to everyone who loves murder mysteries set during the roaring twenties. Let's get jiggy!
~~~
Lastly, this book is dedicated to myself, who really wanted to read it, but couldn’t because I had to write it first.



~PROLOGUE~

The lights are bright and dazzling; shimmering and dancing to the rhythm of the French jazz playing on the illuminated speaker from 1924. It was only a couple of years old at this point, but it is the speaker tonight’s host had grown quite fond of. The lights were dancing, but they were dancing alone; as the music played and swung, the guests stayed rather serious. This is a formal and affluent event, after all.

Although the guests did not join in the light’s and music’s flirt, they were still having a blast. The best of them huddled in groups and reveled in each others’ pleasant conversations. Some of the shyer ones stayed at the edges of the room, almost as if they thought they weren’t meant to be there. The European boozes are cold and being indulged in heavily.

Many happy voices are cheerfully and squiffle-y enjoying the night’s youth, but the night can only be young for so long because tonight was going to be a long, long night.

As one of the guests is just about to take the first sip from his scotch glass, a slender hand with carefully lacquered nails snatches the glass, lifting it up to the stage he is on. The spotlight on him was bright, leaving his guests cast as silhouettes just barely visible to him. He could hear the thoughts of someone who’s eyes hadn’t left him once.

(Standing there he seemed to shine brighter than the gleam of any diamond in the sunlight), Or so he just knew a certain someone was fawning as they watched each other from their fixed places in the room. His heart grew warm.

*ting* *ting* *ting*!

The voices fall silent as our host clinks his expensive ring one more dramatic time on the glass he holds high. For good measure, naturally. All the guests stare wide eyed and smiling, unsure of what is to come of this abrupt and theatrical display.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” He gestured sweeping above the crowd with the glass. “-and all of those in-between.” The man on the stage asserted cheekily.

The posh British man paused for a moment. Poised as ever, he grasped what is now his scotch glass with both hands; in no hurry, his fingers interlock elegantly around the glass.

“Oh! How good it is to see everyone!” He starts.

“What a joyous day to celebrate… ME… and one of the greatest achievements of my life thus far.” He looks at all the hazy faces expectantly. The faces that now had slowly grown closer and closer to the stage.

“Welcome to the ~GRANDEE OPENING~ of MY ‘Little Theatre’!” He announced, extending a jazzed arm. He was starting to feel claustrophobic.

His dearest friends started clapping and cheering, the sharp noises made his ears ring. He tried to bask in the attention.

Wait, was that a scoff he heard?

(No, it couldn’t be) he thought. He shook his head as if to shake that silly idea away.

“Welcome- to the grand opening of THE Sleazy N’ Easy Speakeasy! Hmhm!! How exciting!” He gleamed.

After a couple of confirming voices from his loved ones, he remembered the whole reason he had gone up to the stage in the first place.

“Hhm, AH yes! A toast! Yes yes, umm… ah! To the start of a new era!” He paused to raise his glass in the air, his company mirroring this action. All except his brother, Who was traditionally missing his glass.

“What a time- to be ALIVE!



~~~

Principality of Monaco
August 3rd, 1924

~~~



Lady Moustache woke up with a start. In his dream, he had just taken a sip after his toast. He soothes his throat with his hand, swearing he still feels a strange burning sensation. One that he had never felt drinking scotch in the past. Breathing his relief, he glances over to the purring cat who had, too, been suddenly awoken from her cat nap.

“You poor thing, did I wake you?” The black and white tuxedo cat struggled to keep her sleepy emerald eyes open as she cuddled into Lady Moustache’s open hand.

“I suppose it is about time to get up, don’t you think so too, Kitty Wampus?”

“Mawr”

“Yes, yes… I know! I’m sure brother mine has already been up for a couple of hours… tisk.” He said annoyedly, actually saying the ‘tsk’ part.

Before Lady Moustache leaves his room, he makes sure his little tuxedo-ed friend is let back outside through the open arched window. He stood in the empty spot in front of his window, Kitty Wampus stretched in the bed looking impossibly long for a cat her size.

Attentively, she followed him; she was seemingly unaware of what he was about to do next, despite the fact this has been their ritual every morning for the past couple of months.

To Kitty Wampus’s credit, this was a new environment for her. Lady Moustache had somehow managed to sneak her all the way from their property in France, the one the family lived in during the summer. He looked down at her lovingly, placing a fist on each hip.

“There will be no stray kitties running around Manoir de la Moustache today! I don’t plan on losing another cat to my father’s wrath this year. '' he insisted.

“Mawr”

“Awe. I love you too darling!” Kitty Wampus, unable to protest being picked up, obliged to their morning tradition.

“Ta-taa~” He sang, closing the window.
On his way out the door he took care to grab his cane as he waved ado to his lil’ baby.

Lady Moustache fiddled with his suspenders. As he reached the top of the stairway, he heard the lulls of pleasant conversation. Standing a second longer, he hears Mr. Capgras, (brother mine), talking to a handsome sounding stranger.

“Well, if he’s anything like you, I think I can get along with him.” the stranger tittered.

“On the contrary,” answered Mr. Capgras in a fine tone.

“He’s… a very poncy man.” His ears perked up. (Since when did MY brother keep company with poncy men)

“That’s Lady Moustache for you.” (oh).

“Most first meeting him mistake him for a woman.” Mr. Capgras laughed.

Unable to stand this slander any longer, Lady Moustache takes his first steps down the long stone stairway that curved artfully in the round Art Deco entryway. His cane thumped in unison to the tapping of his shoe as he made his way down.

*tap*

“He wears just about as much makeup as one…“

*tap-thump*

“Don’t get me wrong,”

*tap*

“He makes wonderful company.”

*tap-thump*

“He really knows how to throw a party.”

*tap*

After a moment of silence, he realised his brother is able to hear what he is saying. Mr. Capgras continues.

“Quite the little shit he is.”

*tap-thump*

“He deals the same business as me.” When he said this, the curve of the stairs became visible through the arched doorway of the study. The brothers made swift eye contact.

“Under a different guise, of course.”

*tap*

“He sells ‘books’.” he gestured with a momentary air-quote, before positioning his hands into a steeple position again. One that Mr. Capgras always seemed to hold whenever he was talking to someone he felt superior to, which seemed to be everyone he talked at.

For the dramatics, Lady Moustache thumps his cane one last time, having already been at the bottom of the stairs for a while. The sun-kissed (mostly burnt) stranger turns around, just then discovering his presence.

“Speak of the devil.” Mr. Capgras retorted.



~~~
~~~



© ST.Mortenson