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The Trouble with Lizzie (an episodic series) w/rorschachpopquiz

H

HardBoiled

Planetoid
Joined
Aug 21, 2023
The following thread will follow the misadventures of Elizabeth (Lizzie) O'Donnell, an ambitious girl in her late-20s who moved from the sticks to the big city. Her dream is to be an important investigative journalist. However, for a girl in a business dominated by men, it ain't easy!

This series takes place in the early-1950s, so there'll be no modern technology in this thread! But there'll be phone booths, women called "dames" and much more!

Episode 1 introduces Lizzie to her future, exasperated partner, PI Frank Malzone, a 50-ish ruggedly handsome Italian American man.

EPISODE 1: "A little help, mister?"


Thursday, June 29, 1952

3:55 p.m.

Montvale, a typcial Midwestern burg

Private investigator Frank Malzone stepped out of the phone booth inside the lobby of Apex Drug Store, taking off his Fedora in order to scratch his head through his dark, wavy hair.

“Well ain’t that a kick in the teeth,” he muttered.

He had just gotten off the phone with Meredith Watson, secretary for another PI, Gil Mains. Frank was supposed to meet Mains at Bernie’s Diner, adjacent to the drug store, at 3:30. Mains was going to compare notes with Frank about a suspected illegal operation happening in the seafood and meat market district, riverside. Frank and Gil had intel that inside one of the warehouses was a front for stolen jewels that were being smuggled into the city inside wooden crates of frozen seafood.

“I’m sorry but Mr. Mains got called to an emergency meeting,” Meredith said in her smoky voice. “He didn’t say where. But he left in a big hurry.”

Frank explained about his meeting with Gil at 3:30.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Malzone. I’m sure he didn’t forget about you. You should have seen him fly out of here. Almost like Superman, without the cape.”

Frank thanked Meredith and told her that if Gil returned, to call him at his office and leave a message with the answering service.

Frank sighed and bought the latest issue of LIFE magazine before heading outside. The sun was high and warm, about 82 degrees.

“Shoe shine, mister?”

Frank politely refused the offer by a freckle-faced teenage boy and walked down the street to where his Hudson sedan was parked, curbside. Only a couple minutes were left on the parking meter.

Frank sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, debating what to do next. Then he started the engine and decided to drive down to the warehouse district himself. He couldn’t wait for Mains, who said that he had some info for Frank that indicated that Pier No. 17 was the hub of the smuggling operation. The pair of Pis were going to confer and possibly go down to the area as a tandem.

But the operation was in danger of ending, without any accountability. Frank knew about these types of jigs. If the heat got too much, the perps would simply pick up and move on to somewhere else. Frank was afraid that time was running out before the smugglers got spooked and beat it, given how the investigation was going.

The Hudson roared to life and Frank began the 10-minute drive to the docks.
 
Thursday, June 29, 1952

2:48 PM

The newsroom of the Montvale Press-Herald was alive with the clacking of a dozen different typewriters, the air heavy with cigarette smoke. I had almost completed my work for the Reading through what I had written I even bored myself. The American Legion Ladies' Auxiliary Club had had a picnic yesterday but it got rained out. A minor socialite had broken off her third engagement. A wealthy widow had won a poker tournament.

This was the nonsense I was spending my time on.

I had moved to Montvale last year from my tiny hometown of Perry's Landing. First thing off the bus, I marched over to the office of the Press-Herald and asked for a job. I wanted to be a real investigative reporter, like the women I had always admired and looked up to as a little girl. I wanted to take on the city's toughest stories, its thorniest problems.

Instead I had been saddled with a daily gossip column where I was forced to detail the minutiae of the city's deeply boring social life. The column wasn't even published under my own name; I wrote under the frankly embarrassing pseudonym of Miss Whisper.

My deskmate, a fellow around my own age named George Raleigh, picked up the phone on the first ring, apparently assuming it couldn't possibly be for me. "Raleigh here. How's it going, Benny?"

George was young and hungry, like me, but unlike me he was a man, so he moved on to bigger and better stories practically every week. He fit in well with the backslapping old boys club that ran the newsroom. Our editor Sterling Hollis loved him.

He was never rude to me, exactly, but like most of the men he was condescending. It didn't help that he was annoyingly good-looking to boot. He could be in pictures, with his broad shoulders and that wide white grin.

George suddenly sat up straighter in his seat. "No kidding? Jeez, these smuggler boys are slippery."

My ears perked up. I had read a few articles about Montvale's suspected jewel smuggling ring, how it had the cops chasing their own tails. It was a real, honest-to-god story, not some twaddle about society dames.

George scribbled a few hasty lines down on his steno pad and ripped off the top sheet. "Thanks, pal. Hey, whisky and soda at Finnigan's on me next time, all right?" He hung up.

"Good tip?" I asked, pretending to be uninterested.

"Oh, it's a honey," said George. He ran a hand through his hair. I had really seen him so excited. "The one I've been waiting for. I think we finally know where they’ve been operating from."

"You going down there to check it out?"

"Nah," he said. "I'm brave but I'm not that brave, you know?" He winked at me. "I'm going to do a little research, see what I can dig up in the city records about the shipping company." He grabbed his hat and coat. "See you tomorrow, kid."

"See you tomorrow, George," I said. I tapped a pencil against my lips.

The idea struck me fully formed. It was a little underhanded, but I couldn't help myself. It was too perfect. I went around to George's side of the desk and copied down the address, still clearly visible on the second sheet of the steno pad. It was in the Riverside district, down by the pier. Probably a warehouse.

Maybe George wasn't brave enough to actually go down there and take a snoop around. But what if I was? If I brought Sterling an exclusive scoop on the smuggler situation, maybe I would be allowed to write the article, or at least get some credit for it. It would be the first step on the path to real respect.

I looked around the newsroom to see if anyone would notice me leaving early. It didn't seem likely — other than staring at my legs and occasionally giving me a pat on the rear in passing, my male colleagues seemed largely uninterested in what I did with my time.

I filed my column, gathered up my coat and pocketbook and left the office. I could hear the thumping of my heart over the click of my low heels. Outside on the curb, I hailed a taxi and gave the cabman the warehouse address. He seemed unsure about bringing a woman alone to the pier but an extra dollar got rid of his compunctions. I sat back in my seat as he drove, exhilarated.

This would be the first day of the rest of my career.
 
There was a shift change at 4:00 that was beginning to disperse when Frank pulled into the warehouse district near Montvale River. Scores of blue collar workers, some still smelling of lobster, shrimp and a variety of fish, were making their way to their cars or taking the long walk to the nearest subway station, lugging big steel lunchboxes. Their replacements were already in the warehouses to start the midnight shift.

Frank eased the Hudson to Pier 17. He parked against the curb across the street and cut the engine. Sighing, Frank watched as the final few morning shift workers filtered out of the warehouse. It being the summertime, the doors were left wide open, so Frank could see the forklifts, wooden crates and workers unloading, unsealing and stocking product accordingly.

It was easy to see that the crates were packed with ice, as the shavings and pieces spilled out onto the concrete floor and almost immediately began to melt into little puddles.

Just another day at the piers and docks.

None of the workers that Frank observed seemed out of the ordinary.

"Ah Gil....I could use you right now," the PI muttered.

But a few minutes later, Frank witnessed a well dressed man in wing tipped shoes, a neatly creased suit and Fedora, hurry out of a closed office door that exited to the street. He was shoving something into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket, walking briskly and looking around nervously.

Unfortunately, the man crossed the street and got lost in pedestrian foot traffic of people who were taking the riverside walk toward the steamer ferries, which would transport them to Grande Island, an upscale place filled with expensive shops, high end homes and a large amusement park.

Sighing, Frank got out of the Hudson, looked both ways and crossed the street. The hurried man might be gone, but the place from which he emerged, wasn't.

He approached the steel door that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Coincidentally, a man who had just dropped off some crates passed him, driving a forklift.

"Hey pal....can I ask you a question?!" Frank yelled over the forklift's motor. The man stopped and turned off the vehicle.

"What's up, Mac?"

"Food inspector," Frank said, flashing the inside of his wallet briefly. "Can you help me out here? With this door?"

The man shrugged and climbed out of the forklift. "This is your lucky day, Mac. Only a few of us have keys."

With that, the forklift operator inserted a key from a ring of at least a dozen into the doorknob and turned. "There you go."

Frank smiled, tipped his hat and entered.
 
Pier 17 didn't smell very good. As soon as I stepped out of the cab my nostrils were assaulted with the mingled odors of seafood and men at work. The sun was high overhead and birds were circling, attracted to the crates of fish and crabs being loaded and unloaded.

I had convinced myself on the ride over that coming to investigate in the middle of the day was actually a good thing. Any danger that might exist would be limited to nighttime hours — no one would dare do anything to interfere with me in broad daylight, even in this rough area. Being a woman would actually help me for once.

The warehouse in question was bustling, its doors flung open to accommodate the heat. Men in dirty clothes were lifting huge wooden boxes and operating machinery and busily doing a number of things I didn't understand. They tracked half-melted ice across the filthy floor as they worked. They looked like the sort of men who usually wolf-whistled at me on my way to work. I would try to avoid them if I possibly could.

I circled the building at a brisk walk, pretending to join a little knot of people heading towards the ferry launch. The other side of the warehouse was just a blank aluminum wall with two normal doors set in it. The first door was locked; the second one wasn't. I glanced around to see if the coast was clear and then quickly slipped inside.

If anybody saw me and questioned what I was doing, I was prepared to play dumb. I would claim that I was looking for the warehouse where my brother worked as manager and gee, mister, I could have sworn it was this one. A few bats of my eyelashes and I would be safely on my way.

The hallway was empty of both people and decoration — if this was the smugglers' depot, they badly needed to brighten up the place. I was as quiet as I could be moving down the corridor, especially considering that I had on the low, sensible heels I wore for work. I considered taking them off but the thought of dirtying my stockings on the grimy floor of the warehouse discouraged me.

When I found a door marked OFFICE, I pressed my ear to the wood and listened. The sounds of men at work in the cavernous storage area were loud, which made it tough to tell if there was anyone in the office. I couldn't hear anything, so I eventually took the gamble and pushed open the door.

I was alone, thank goodness. It was a cluttered but fairly ordinary office: splintery old wooden desk piled high with documents and files, a few sagging storage cabinets, a busted typewriter in the corner. A pinup calendar hung on the wall, still turned to March 1948.

This was the perfect snooping opportunity I'd been hoping for. I sat down at the desk and started gingerly shifting through papers. Shipping manifests, receipts, inventory records. . . everything was piled up higgledy-piggledy, with no apparent order. I needed something juicy, something incriminating.

I lost track of time as I skimmed through documents, taking copious notes on the pad I'd brought with me. I was so absorbed in my detective work that I must have missed the sound of the office door creaking open. What I didn't miss was the feeling of a heavy hand suddenly laid on my shoulder.

"Well, well, well. As they say in the movies, what do we have here?"
 
Frank passed a few people as he made his way through the maze of hallways and nooks and crannies. A few secretary looking types clutching manila file folders to their suited chests. Some fellows who looked like foremen. A suit who was likely an accountant of some sort.

None of them questioned who Frank was or why he was in the building. Perfect.

What he was looking for, even Frank wasn't clear about. It wasn't as if he'd find a big door with SMUGGLING OPERATION painted on it.

But he did know that he sure as heck wasn't going to find anything sitting in the Hudson across the street.

Frank finally decided that what he was looking for was an office or two that was off the beaten path from the rows of them that he stumbled upon after making a few turns. After all, an illegal operation liked solitude and being away from the madding crowd.

Frank had almost given up when he saw, from a distance, two suited men exit a door at the end of the hall he had just turned down. The turned right and headed to the stairwell. They moved rather quickly.

Eyes narrowing, Frank picked up the pace. Maybe this was... something.

He got to the door that just said OFFICE and pushed it open; it wasn't quite latched.

His eyes widened at the sight before him.

A young woman, dressed for business, was securely tied to a chair. Wrists to armrests, ankles together and then pulled back and attached to the pedestal. Rope pressed her torso to the chair back, above and below her breasts. A wide band of cloth, likely a man's handkerchief, was tightly tied over her mouth.

"Jesus," Frank muttered, immediately pulling his revolver from his shoulder holster under his jacket. He looked at the woman. "Are you alone?"

After she nodded yes, Frank put the gun back and rushed to her. She was quite excitable, as would be expected, eyes wide and frantically trying to talk to him through the handkerchief.

"Hold on, miss." Frank pulled the cloth down so it rested against her throat. "Are you OK? What happened? My name is Frank Malzone. I'm a private investigator."

He started to untie the attractive woman. Right away, Frank figured that her plight was related to the smuggling operation but maybe it wasn't.
 
I had never been so relieved in my life as when the door opened and a man who was not one of my captors stepped through. As soon as it became clear he was actually here to help me I started talking, trying to tell him what was going on. Unfortunately, the gag that had been firmly tied over my lips muffled my speech and made it fairly hard to understand. My rescuer didn't even bother to try. He set my mouth free and I took a few deep, grateful breaths. The white-hot fear that had been coursing through me since I was seized by my two well-dressed captors was starting to ebb.

The ropes binding me to the chair were not painfully tight but they were totally secure. However much I had wriggled and squirmed, they wouldn't budge an inch. I was especially embarrassed by the ropes around my chest, which highlighted my bosom in a way that made my cheeks burn.

My rescuer was probably in his fifties, although he moved as vigorously as a man twenty years younger. His face was as weather-beaten as driftwood. . . but in a rather handsome way. I had initially been frightened when he drew his revolver but now I felt strangely grateful that he was armed.

"Thank you so much, I truly appreciate it. My name's Elizabeth O'Donnell," I said. "I'm a reporter for the Press-Herald. I came here today investigating a story." This was all technically true, although I was leaving out a few key details. "Two men did this to me. I think they work for that smuggling ring that's been causing trouble here in town."

My rescuer — Frank — was working on my bonds with narrow-eyed concentration. He picked the knots loose with the confidence of a man who knows his way around rope. It was embarrassing, suddenly being so close to a man I had never met, his hands lightly grazing my wrists and feet and shoulders as he untied me. He was being respectful, though. He smelled like aftershave and whiskey, not unpleasantly so.

"Why are you here, Frank?” I asked. “Are you looking into the smuggling operation too?"
 
The Press-Herald.

Frank had a mixed relationship with the paper, especially the city editor, Sterling Hollis, who could be a jerk off. On more than one occasion, Hollis withheld information from Frank that was critical to his work, claiming some sort of protection of the free press. In other words, bullshit.

Hollis got sore at Frank about a year ago when the PI made the paper's reporters look bad, but it wasn't Frank's fault.

But Frank had never heard of this dame, O'Donnell. She was a looker, though.

After Frank pulled the last of the well-tied ropes from the girl's shapely body, he answered her.

"Yeah. We have that in common. Looks like you found something. Or you hit a nerve."

Frank stood back and took off his hat to scratch his head. "Don't think I'm just going to let you skidaddle out of here without an explanation, young lady. I've put a lot of time into this jig and I'm not going to let you go until you tell me what you know. And since when does Hollis put dames on cases like this? Don't you have a wedding shower to cover?" He smirked at her. "Maybe something more your speed? Because maybe this line of work is a little too dangerous for a nice girl like you."

Frank grinned at her the same way he would at a teen girl who was trying to play football.
 
As soon as my ankles were free of the rope, I stood up from the chair that had been my prison for the last hour. I wasn't a short girl, but Frank had nearly a head of height on me, and his bulk was impressive. I was certainly glad he wasn’t on the smugglers’ side.

As he spoke to me, though, my gratitude curdled into indignance. The “wedding shower” jab got me particularly steamed, probably because I had indeed had to cover a wedding shower last week. Who did this Frank Malzone character think he was, anyway? Who was he to cast aspersions on my competence? Granted, our introduction had seen me tied to a chair, helpless and silenced — not the best way to establish myself as an independent gal.

"Now see here, mister," I said. "I am a real reporter, even though I’m a ‘dame,’ too. What makes you think this story is too dangerous for me? I’ve handled myself just fine so far, thank you very much.” I drew myself up to my full height and looked him dead in the eye. “So why don’t you tell me what you know? Maybe we can help each other out here.”
 
As the young woman stood, Frank could see that she wasn't petite. Not as tall as his 6'2," but not short. Maybe 5'9" and some centimeters.

At her indignation, Frank merely smirked. "Yes you handled yourself fine, Miss O'Donnell, right up until the point that you didn't," he said, nodding to the coils of rope on the floor.

Frank wasn't going to show his cards first to the reporter, especially someone who worked for Hollis.

"Look, Miss O'Donnell, my relationship with your editor and reporters ain't a good one. Hollis likes to play keep away with information. So I sure as hell am not going to tell YOU what I know. I also know that if Hollis had a good tip, he would have assigned that fellow....George Something? So are you doing this behind the paper's back?"

She was going to answer, but Frank heard voices. He quickly clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her into the office closet, closing the door.

"It might be them," he whispered, holding her close. So close that he could feel her heart beating out of her ample chest.
 
My cheeks burned hot with embarrassment. This Malzone guy was making fun of me, the fact that I had gotten myself tied up in this stupid office. It was an ungentlemanly thing to do in my opining! And did he have to be so darned smug about it?

I was surprised that he knew so much about the inner workings of the Press-Herald. He even knew Sterling! He was a man with connections. Probably not surprising, given his line of work. A PI could go anywhere and everywhere, even in a city like this one. Frank Malzone had the kind of top-to-bottom access that a gossip columnist like me could only dream of.

"I'm not doing anything behind anyone's back!" I said, getting heated. I was going behind my editor’s back, of course, but Frank didn't have to know that. "I'll have you know I c—mmph!"

Frank had suddenly grabbed me, none too gently, and fit his big hand hard over my mouth. I was so shocked that at first I barely reacted. He pulled me backwards and into the office closet, smoothly closing the door and trapping us in darkness. One hand remained clamped over my lips, the other was wrapped around my body, unyielding, pinning my arms to my sides. I felt like I was right back in the chair. Gosh, he was strong. . .

“MMMM! Mmmmm.” I tried to say something, I didn’t even know what, but all that came out was a moan. His palm was rough against my lips.

The door to the office creaked open and my heart leapt in my chest. Heavy footsteps entered the room, two pairs.

“Where the hell is the snoop?” a man asked.
 
"BE QUIET, GODDAMMIT," Frank hissed into the girl reporter's ear, tightening his grip over her supple lips as she tried to talk.

He swallowed hard as footsteps approached, followed by the door opening.

Then, immediate shuffling of wing tipped feet and cursing from what sounded like two men. Probably the same ones Frank saw and who bundled up the girl, Miss O'Donnell.

Frank inched backwards until his back pressed against the closet wall, still holding the girl tightly. She smelled good and her hair felt soft against his cheek. His hand was like a vise over her lips, his fingertips digging into her cheeks. She struck him as a chatty girl who might need help sometimes in keeping quiet. Like now.

"Those ropes were tight! How did she get loose?!"

"I don't know but the boss is going to have a fit. If there was a Goddamn phone in this office that worked, we wouldn't have had to call from the lobby!"

Frank guessed that the men left the reporter alone so they could inform someone of who they found, and what she was doing. What they were going to do to Miss O'Donnell ---Lizzie--- after that, was anyone's guess. But it likely wasn't going to be pleasant.

After what seemed like hours but was only about a minute, the men left, with one of them saying something about the "snoop" probably having a partner that helped her get loose.

Frank waited a good 30 seconds after they left before he finally released the girl's mouth. He pushed the closet door open cautiously.

"Looks like these men had plans for you," Frank said, looking at Lizzie. He looked down at his palm and saw remnants of lipstick, which he cleaned off with his handkerchief.
 
My heart hammered in my chest as we listened to the two men swear and pace around the office and try to figure out where I'd gone. It was the two men who had captured me in the first place, cheap thugs who concealed their cheapness with good suits and threadbare manners. The thought of falling into their clutches again made me shudder in Frank's grip.

I tried to whisper something to Frank about loosening his hold on me, but my words died on his palm. It was stuffy in the closet, especially with his large hand clamped unyieldingly over my mouth. I hadn't appreciated being told to be quiet — as if I didn't realize the danger we were in better than he did!

When the men finally, mercifully, left the room I squirmed until Malzone relinquished his grip on me. We moved cautiously back into the office. I was happy to be out of that closet, which had smelled like mothballs and old papers.

"And I'm sure those plans didn't involve taking me to the automat and buying me a tuna sandwich," I said. I was grateful to see that the men hadn't noticed that my pocketbook was still under the desk where they had stashed it. I retrieved it, checking inside to confirm that my money had indeed been taken. "Did you hear them mention their boss? Any idea who that might be? And by the way, you did not have to cover my mouth like that! I didn’t want to be caught again by those guys any more than you did!”

We both stopped in our tracks at another sound from the hallway. Whoever it was walked right by the office door without incident but it was a further reminder that we weren't safe as long as we stayed here. "Let's get out of here!" I said. “I’ve seen enough of this office for one day.”
 
Frank narrowed his eyes after Lizzie scolded him for covering her mouth. "You're a dame. Dames scream and they don't always know when to be quiet," he said plainly, as if it was common knowledge. "I may have saved that sweet tush of yours by doing that. And mine!"

He watched as she retrieved her pocketbook. "No names. I didn't recognize the voices either. But I have a strong hunch that we have the right pier. I'll buy you a coffee but only if you talk first. My client isn't paying me to share information with reporters. You tell me what you know and I'll tell you if you're on the right track. If Hollis did assign you, then the last thing you want to do is make him look bad. I know him well enough to know that he sees the city desk as an extension of him. Narcissistic bastard."

With that, Frank heard the same noises that Lizzie did. He was almost going to cover her mouth again but he settled on grabbing hold of her arm briefly, keeping her in place.

"Good idea," he said about her suggestion of scramming. "There's a diner down the street. How did you get here? I have a car. Let's go."

Frank opened the door and motioned with his arm. "After you, Miss O'Donnell," he said with a small grin.
 
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