Jakub

The speakeasy was a cacophony of noise, the groaning of wooden chairs drowned out by the raucous voices of the patrons. Factory workers, their skin still stained with soot and ash, shoveled sandwiches into their mouths, shouting and laughing through half-chewed bites. The other half of the room was filled with low-level hoodlums. Two different worlds, yet they bled into one another, bonded by the common denominator of poverty.

Jakub was working through his meal - or rather, the lack of one. There were no plates, just two hot dogs wrapped in wax paper, a side of sauerkraut, and a glass of Near Beer to keep his spirits up.

Jakub sat there straining his ears, trying to filter the noise to catch any word of value. But then, the volume in the room suddenly plummeted, replaced by a low hum of white noise. Everyone shifted their attention toward the window, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the street.

"It's he, Mister Frye..." They whispered the man's name. Jakub bolted upright, nearly knocking over his chair as he shoved through the crowd to secure a spot at the front. The wealthy man had pulled Jakub from that Detroit shithole, giving him a way to use his fists for something other than dragging iron bars at the auto plant.

The night sky was dotted with stars, and he occasionally wondered why a city as large as New York felt so starved of starlight. It was a lingering thought that haunted Jakub whenever he sat quietly on the rooftop alone. However, tonight, there was someone else with him.

His girl.

They stood amidst a tangled mess of laundry lines, with pants and shirts fluttering gently in the breeze, while the melodic strains of jazz drifted up from the speakeasy in the basement. She was surely the brightest star of the night, his very own moon.

It was difficult to find a moment of privacy like this, and they were fortunate that most of the fellas were working the night shift. Jakub rested his hand against the woman’s bare back.

"You're a real dime, you know that?"

The night sky was dotted with stars, and he occasionally wondered why a city as large as New York felt so starved of starlight. It was a lingering thought that haunted Jakub whenever he sat quietly on the rooftop alone. However, tonight, there was someone else with him.

His fella.

They had a bottle of hooch, a cigar that had certainly been swiped from someone, and two stomachs only half-full after dinner. A steady breeze blew from Coney Island, bringing the sharp scent of salt and a welcome coolness. The laundry on the drying racks snapped and billowed in the wind. A melodic jazz tune drifted up from the blind pig on the ground floor of the building.

"I wonder what it’s like to be part of all that... to have that glow wash all the soot and coal off your skin," Jakub murmured, looking toward the city center, the heart of the lights, where the money flowed and the power resided. "Cold cash. Power. A heater that commands respect. Gorgeous dames. And dinin' like a king-chewin' for the pleasure of it, instead of just tryin' to stop the ache in your belly."

Since the Prohibition act went into effect last year, gangs had flourished with a frantic intensity, ready to kill one another just to hijack a shipment of liquor or industrial alcohol for cutting and brewing.

It wasn't that Jakub had never committed a robbery, nor did he believe that no one would dare steal Mister Frye’s booze. It was just that thinking about it and preparing for it was one thing; actually facing it was another. Jakub realized that being on guard was never enough.

Jakub clutched his blood-soaked abdomen as he ran, abandoning the truck, the cargo, and the corpses of the others to duck into a narrow alleyway. He didn't feel much pain yet; his body was burning up, as if a miraculous strength was lifting him off the ground, urging him to flee.

He felt like the chosen one. They aren't following, Jakub thought. But that moment of relief was fleeting, as a sudden, agonizing jolt shot through his wound. Perhaps the death-throe euphoria was fading, making way for the return of raw, honest pain.

Jakub collapsed, leaning against a filthy wall, clutching the wound in his belly and gasping for air, his teeth gritted tight. He didn't know what to do. Cry out? They’ll hear me. Keep running? The pain was so severe he couldn't even move without his body locking up.

Reality crashed down on Jakub. This was the end for most who chose the path he had taken-becoming part of the "cool" Mafia gangs. And for the first time, a godless man like Jakub began to pray in his head.