Mal Smith woke with a crick in the neck. Bleary eyed and head pounding from the bottle of gin he'd consumed the previous night, he dragged himself upright in his desk chair. Leaking in the open window behind him was the chorus of a slowly stirring city. Keys jingled as front doors to stores and restaurants were opened while heels of secretaries clicked down the sidewalks. Streetcar brakes screeched in the distance.

He squinted towards the clock on the wall. It was almost eight in the morning. He'd never made it home last night. A late call from his subordinate in New Jersey had kept him up. But they had the boat. His deal with the rum runners out of the Caribbean had come through, despite threats from the Italian mobsters from Chicago.

Slowly, they were seeing that someone with family money and a respectable reputation like Mal was good to have as an ally in the public eye. A war hero to boot. He could easily go into politics if he wanted. Most of them might be uneducated louts, but they weren't that stupid.

He grimaced. His mouth tasted like sour bread. The remnants of a Cuban cigar smoked in the ash tray by his reading lamp. Opening the bottom drawer in his desk, he took out the glass bottle of Listerine he'd stashed down here with his colt revolver. It was always kept loaded these days.

Swishing a mouthful of the gargle and spitting it out the window, he closed the pane and loosened the collar of his shirt. Striding over to the bowl of fresh water on a nearby wash stand, he splashed his face, rubbing his aching eyes.

A knock came at the closed office door.

"Come in!"

"Mr. Smith?" Mrs. McCrory, his middle aged Irish secretary, appeared. She seemed like a sweet, sedate Catholic from Limerick, but her years in the IRA could prove that impression dead wrong. "Were you here all night, sir?"

He dried his face with a towel and gave her a weary smile. "I hate to admit it, but yes. I got caught up with business."

"Shall I order some breakfast for you, sir?"

"Yes please. My usual, if you will. Eggs, over easy. Sausage."

"Of course." She tapped her short finger nails on the door frame. She still wore her hat with her purse hooked over her bony shoulder, having just gotten in to work. "Sir. I'm sorry, but there is someone already here to see you."

"Tell them to come back later please," he groused. "Once my aspirin kicks in."

"I would, but sir... it's the police."

Mal Smith peered into the looking glass over the wash stand. He dipped a comb into the water and ran it through his hair, buttoning his collar once more and neatening his tie. "Very well. Send them in, Mrs. McCrory."

He'd known that the authorities were having his place watched. He'd seen figures changing shifts at odd hours in the alley across the street from the theater. By arriving so early on a morning when he'd never left, they were sending a clear message. They knew what he was up to these days.

But he was clean. A son of old New York money. Astor ties. Argonne Forest.

They couldn't touch him.

So that was how he was able to smile brightly at the neatly dressed gentleman as he entered the office. Mal turned on the charm, appearing like he'd slept a full night in his own bed and not restlessly passed out in a desk chair for a few hours.

"Officer! How can I help you?" He extended his hand.

The man removed the hamburg from his salt and pepper head, the lines around his thin mouth deepening as he gave a steely smile. "Mr. Astor-Smith, I apologize for disturbing you so early this morning."

"Please, this is the best time to see me. The eight o'clock hour tends to be my quietest." He motioned for the chair in front of his desk. "And please, call me Mal."

"Thank you," the man said, sitting down.

Mal moved behind his desk, hooking a thumb in his pant's pocket. "Shall I call up some coffee for you?"

"No, thank you. Don't trouble yourself." The man ran his fingers over his thick mustache. Mal noted a serious scar on the back of his hand, like the remnants of a stigmata. "I'm Detective Kelly Silver with the New York Police."

Mal calmly situated himself across from him, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his middle. "What can I help you with, detective?"

"I am here to help you actually."

"Oh?" Mal feigned surprise.

Detective Silver sat forward in his chair, twirling his hat in his hands. His eyebrows drew low over his slate grey eyes. "Yes. You see we recently apprehended a suspect with some mob ties in Chicago. He was in the city for business it seems. Some rum runners off the coast of New Jersey. We questioned him and... your name came up."

The look of wide eyed concern never left Mal's naturally trustworthy countenance. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. He isn't anyone high up in the ring over there, but he would have knowledge. It sounds like there are some king pins over there looking to recruit you for their smuggling operations. Liquor and other contraband."

Mal nodded. "Why me?"

"That's what we were trying to understand. We could only conclude that it might have to do with your time in the service. Tell me, Mr. Smith-"

"It's Mal, please."

Detective Silver gave a patient smile. "Mr. Smith. Were any of the men under your command in France from such a background?"

Mal sniffed, his chair creaking as he leaned back. "What is the nationality?"

"Italian."

"I was assigned mostly to New York Units. There were Italians, of course, but from the surrounding boroughs. I even was given charge over an all black fighting contingent out of Harlem. Now they were some good fighters, hellish with a bayonet. They fought mostly with the French Army because of backwards Americans who refused to fight beside their own countrymen due to their skin color."

Mrs. McCrory knocked at the door and Mal called for her to enter. She came in with a tray of coffee things and donuts. Mal waved a hand over the food.

"You sure you aren't hungry?" He offered.

Detective Silver's keen gaze was on him, not the tray. "No. Thank you."

"Ah. Oh well." He grinned and poured himself a cup of coffee with a steady hand. "I haven't spoken to any Italians from out of Chicago.... ever really." He scoffed. "But I thank you for the warning, sir. I will take it to heart."

Detective Silver continued to eye him. Mal sipped his coffee. Heaving a sigh, Silver rose from his seat, Mal following the motion.

"I'll keep tabs on the situation, should it become dangerous. If only for your sake, Mr. Smith," Silver stated blandly, his words not going misunderstood.

Mal smiled brightly. "Thank you very much, detective. I appreciate the work you and your men do for this city."

"I'm sure you do."

Coffee cup in hand, Mal watched from his window as the detective got into his car down in the street. Silver paused before getting in, his attention on a nearby corner. It was close to the subway exit. Mal narrowed his eyes as he noticed who the police officer was watching.

Ivy McKee emerged into the golden sunlight, dressed in her usual grey dress and black cloche hat. She hopped across the street, oblivious to Silver as she made her way to the theater.

Mal frowned. This was a development he never could have foreseen. Not in a thousand years.