ALFRED THE FORTUITOUS





















 

Chicago, Summer, 1927

    When Alfred awoke, his right eye struggled to pry itself open, while his left was sealed over in a hardened crust.  He had been hit, and hit hard. He at least knew that much.  He wasn't certain as to what manner of instrument had struck him, but he assumed it was most likely a billy-club.  His head pounded relentlessly, as if a herd of startled elephants were tromping back and forth in his brain.  Though his eye was now perceptive and he was fully cognate, he beheld nothing but pitch darkness.  The pain throbbed in gushing currents, beating an atrocious rhythm until he sustained no longer, and he sunk backward into the sanctity of dreams.

    Several hours later he awoke again, this time to the sound of a strange cry in the distance.  He was more alert now and could hold his consciousness, though his head was still governed by the pervasive aching.  The sound had been a scream, a man's scream, but perverted in such a way as to sound like a child.  It came again, this time    longer - shrill, and more desperate.  It flew in a muffled path, as if it traveled down several corridors and pierced through walls to reach him.  Alfred tried to move, but his body was lost to an odd sense of paralysis.  He discovered his hands and feet were bound tightly, and his back was lying flat on a rigid surface.  He gathered what little sensibility was left to his avail, and slowly began to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

    It was prohibition, and he, like other young men of his era, was eager to find a decent living in the scuffles of the big city.  Alfred was propositioned by a young gentleman who was sharing a drink with him in a local speakeasy.  He had seemed very calm and confident in his effort to recruit him, and had a charming disposition that lured Alfred deeper into conversation.  "Every man needs a drink," he remarked simply.  "Why not make a little earning at it?"  He had started an independent operation of his own, and invited Alfred to assist him in supply transactions.  It was a small, but lucrative strain, and the clientele were committed to maintaining the strictest secrecy.  Alfred, who was destitute and in dire straits, accepted eagerly. 

    Within weeks, he had established himself as the man's chief business partner.  Like clockwork, men strode through the door after a hard day on the assembly line, the shore docks, or from wherever they toiled for a day’s meager wage.  Alfred and his associate had a drink and a smile for them, and the profits churned like butter and cream.

    It was important to keep the business small and discreet, however.  There was one man who had the lion's share of this criminality, and he wanted no one else to share in its prosperity.  Alfred made it a point to know everything about him - where he frequented, who he contacted, and what he knew.  He even learned of the long reach from his past, when he ran in the small street gangs that littered the old Chicago vogue.  He was known as Alphonso Componi back then, a name now long forgotten and replaced with a much more dreaded persona.  To cross him meant one thing and one thing only, and that was death.

    As Alfred lay helpless to the twisted knots of his restraints, the last series of events slowly began to work their way back to his mind.  He had been standing next to his partner, tossing a silver dollar up and down and discussing the day's events, when no sooner had he put the coin back in his pocket, a sharp blow had met with the side of his head.  He slumped to the ground and his vision became hazy.  The last sight he recalled was the flash of a lime green suit, and then darkness.

    It was now painfully clear that their business had been discovered.  He clenched his teeth and shivered warily in the blackness.  There was nothing he could do but wait.  The hours dragged on and on.

    When he was close to succumbing to the throes of delirium, his mind dove deep to take him somewhere far away from the verity of the horrible circumstance.  He slipped into the distant shades of his childhood, and retrieved a memory that became a warm and soothing comfort. 

    His beloved grandfather had taken him one Sunday to the county fair when Alfred was just four.  He enjoyed the day as any child would enjoy, but wandered astray when his grandfather wasn't looking.  He sauntered across the street to an abandoned building, and being the curious child that he was, he ventured inside to explore.  It was a   two-story structure, and before long Alfred had made his way to the rooftop to look at his surroundings from a bird's-eye view.  It didn't seem unnatural to him, to walk along the ledge of the old building to get a better look.

    By this time his grandfather and a crowd of townsfolk had been alerted to the dilemma, and they rushed over to lead Alfred to safety.  They yelled and screamed for him to go back down from whence he came, but Alfred was quite content and couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.  Just then, a forceful gust of wind struck him about the back, and Alfred flew from the ledge at a staggering distance.  The crowd hushed in horror, but Alfred fell straight to the spot where his grandfather stood, and he caught him safely in the folds of his strong arms.  Overwhelmed with joy, and with tears rolling down his cheeks, his grandfather spun the boy around gleefully and exclaimed: "Alfred the Fortuitous!" 

    In the depths of his isolated cell, he held firmly to the memory.  He nursed the silent hope that today would end like that day.  Somehow, someway, he would get out of this.  He would get out of this and be just fine. 

    The darkness slowly became filled with a dull light when the creak of a door was brought softly to his ears.  He could see the proportions of the room now.  It was small and bare, like a prison cell with no windows, and he lay bound by leather straps to a wooden table which was approximately six feet in length.  To his left was a door that was slightly ajar, and a face was peering in at him with a most hideous expression.  He was a tall man and broad-shouldered with black hair that was slicked back with an overabundance of hair grease.  His complexion was the pale, sunless color of cadaver flesh.  His nose was slender like a blade, while his forehead protruded rudely in a heave of bone.  His teeth were small and sharpened to the fine points of a ghastly smile, and his lips were thin and cracked under the milky, yellow hue of remorseless eyes. 

    Terror prevented Alfred from speaking.  The man waited a full minute and did nothing but smile, as if simply to please himself.  Finally he opened the door a bit wider, and a sudden blur burst into the room.  Alfred saw fangs, and savage, glowing eyes of hatred staring wildly upon him.  He was looking down at the shape of an enormous, ravenous dog.  In the dimness he could not determine the breed, but its bulky measurements suggested some kind of mutation.  It stopped abruptly only a few feet from the table and crouched into an attack position, where it curled its black lips into a vicious snarl.  There was a heavy stain of blood on its chin, and a red, sticky foam dripped from its jaws to the floor.

    The man stepped casually into the room, and spoke.  "Are you wondering why you haven't been attacked yet?"  Alfred was still too fearful to reply, and merely returned his gaze.  The man seemed unconcerned about a response, and continued.  "He's waiting for my signal.  He's well-trained, I can assure you.  It's just a little trigger, something that I do… and believe me, when it happens, he will tear you to pieces."  Alfred stared at the panting creature and the pointed ears that were matted against fur that stuck on end like bristles of a hair brush and his blood ran cold. 

    "Oh, please forgive me," his captor said comfortably.  "I made no introduction.  Allow me to introduce you to Brutus.  He's part wolf, you know.  They were going to put him down as a pup, but I took him in.  It took me years to get him this controlled."  The man scratched his head slightly and looked down at the dog with pride.  "The trick to keeping him this aggressive is by mixing a little buckshot with his food.  It really agitates his stomach."  Alfred looked again at the monstrosity, and then turned away.  "I'm assuming you know why you're here," the man pressed, keeping his light tone.  "My employer had you sent here so we could have a little chat.  I don't suppose you'd object, would you?"

  Alfred failed briefly to make his lips move, and then timidly replied: "N…no."

  "Good then," his captor responded, "He will be very pleased.  Funny, I've never actually met the man, but that's how he prefers it.  He doesn't like to see work of this nature up close.  It's quite messy, you know.  That was your partner down the hall, by the way.  He was quite a charming fellow."

  WAS…  The word echoed hauntingly in Alfred's brain.

  The man sensed his growing fear, but continued to speak as if they were engaged in a pleasant conversation.  "I don't get out much, you see.  It's usually just me and Brutus down here, although my employer's associates are waiting upstairs.  They need to know what I've discovered."

  Alfred swallowed deeply and realized that he had to keep talking if there was any chance of survival.  He knew that this was an interrogation now, and this dog, this hideous, detestable creature, was the instrument of his torture.  "I will cooperate," he stated as firmly as possible.  "May I have the courtesy of knowing your name?"

  "My name is none of your concern," the man said coolly, "But I know who you are, Alfred.  They've been watching you for a little while now, to make sure."  He stepped closer and began stroking the dog affectionately on the head.  "Prohibition," he said in a humorous tone.  "We all have a good laugh about it.  Everyone knows alcohol is a commodity that will always be in heavy demand.  You have tried to make a buck, and I can understand that, but this is my employer's business, not yours.  You have been foolish enough to cut into that very business. Very foolish indeed.  My employer has become quite frustrated with men like you…and now you are here…with me."

    "Okay…okay…" Alfred stumbled nervously.  "I realize I've made a mistake, but I'll talk.  I'll tell you anything you want to know."

  "Excellent," the man replied smugly.  “Brutus always has a way with people.  There hasn't been a man that we've encountered down here who chooses to be stubborn in matters like this.  Now then, I want you to give me the names of everyone that has supplied and worked in your organization, as well as a list of your clientele.  I strongly advise you to talk swiftly and honestly.  Remember the trigger, Alfred.  Just one signal to Brutus and you are done for."  The canine's growls were growing in intensity, and the saliva dripped and fell in increasing amounts into a soapy pile near the table.  Alfred could do nothing but spill his guts, and spill his guts he did, giving his captor every name he could think of, as well as the intimate details of their daily operations.

    When he was finished, the man's smile was wide and beaming with satisfaction.  "Good!"  he chuckled devilishly, "Very good indeed!"

  "So…you'll let me go then?"  Alfred dreaded asking the question, but he knew it had to asked, and he had waited until his captor seemed the most at ease.

  "I'm afraid I can't do that."  The man's smile wiped quickly from his face, as if it had never been there.

  "I…I don't understand," Alfred stammered.  "I've told you everything, I swear, there's nothing more to tell."

  "I know you have, and I appreciate that.  I'm quite confident you've been whole-heartedly truthful and forthcoming."

  "I have!" Alfred yelped.

  "Be that as it may," his captor said carefully, "For you to go on living would damage my employer's reputation, and we can't have that…"  The room went icy cold, and Alfred's heart knocked painfully in his chest.

  "Sir…" he pleaded, "If you release me I will leave this city and never come back.  I'll go as far away from here as I can, and I won't breathe a word about this to anyone."

  "Quite possibly," he replied, "But my employer is unwilling to take that risk.  I'm afraid this is the end, Alfred."

  "Wait!"  Alfred begged.  "Tell me what you want, I'll give you anything…whatever he pays you, I'll pay double, triple…"

  "You have nothing that I need. Goodbye Alfred."

  "Please!" Alfred shouted, "Just one minute more!  Just one minute more of time!"

    The man suddenly laughed uproariously, as if he were hearing the punch line to a well-constructed joke.  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you now."

  "Because!" Alfred shrieked.  His mind scrambled maniacally for any kind of plausible reason, any strategy or angle he could use to his advantage, but he came up empty.  He banged his head repeatedly on the hard wood of the table, and in a hysterical wail, he cried: "Because I am Alfred the Fortuitous!"  His captor paused, and looked at him queerly at the absurdity of the comment, but quickly regained his composure.

  "You're a bootlegger," he hissed. "Nothing more. Alfred the Bootlegger, who is about to die."  The man waited a few cold seconds, and then molded his face into a comical expression.  "Don't take this so personally," he said.  "I hold no grudge against you.  This is merely business, you know.  Just an order from my employer."

  With that, the red hot pressure flaming through Alfred's body allowed the strap on his right hand to break away, and he threw an accusatory finger at his captor's face and cried: "Your employer!  Your employer!  Let the two of us meet in hell!  My pitiful soul, and your precious employer, Alphonso Componi!" 

    Upon the utterance of that old Italian name, the eyes of Brutus snapped briefly to a state of confusion, and then he spun on his haunches and drove his fangs deeply into the thigh of his master.  The man screeched in shock and agony, as the animal tore obsessively at his flesh.  His trousers were ripped to bloody confetti as he was pulled straight to the floor.

    Alfred looked on in bewilderment.  With his free hand, he untied the rest of the restraints and leaped from the table to make his escape.

    His captor now lay seconds away from death at the hands of his own device.  Alfred left him there in a mangled heap with Brutus upon him.  He bolted down a dark hallway and arrived at a staircase, but chose to take an alternate route away from the upstairs floor.  He knew there would be more men, and he did not want to alert them to the knowledge that the screams now echoing down the corridor were not his own. 

    He was in a large, underground factory of some kind, filled with a network of pipes and dust-covered machinery.  He crossed through a large doorway and heard the sound of rushing water flowing vigorously beneath his feet.  He bent to the level of the floor and felt the bars of an iron grate covering a square-shaped opening.  After numerous attempts to move the lid with his aching muscles, it came loose, and Alfred dropped himself through and was met with cold water waist high.

    He gathered he was in the recesses of the building's drainage system.  He stood in the cross corridors of four rectangular tunnels that converged under the edifice.  He charged down the tunnel that was nearest to him and traveled in the direction the water flowed in hopes of being regurgitated from the premises.  The tunnel's measurements were small and confined, about three feet in width and five feet in height.  Upon gaining just a few minutes of traction, he spotted a speckle of light hanging like a diamond which signified the tunnel's end.  He had never seen a sight more glorious.  He pushed onward through the dark water when he noticed its level was rising in dangerous rapidity, and was now at the high measure of his chest.

    He dove down and stroked furiously in the frigid current, until the speckle of light had become a large, bright portal sealed with yet another grate.  It was not as thick as the previous one, but secured with four heavy screws that prevented his passage.  The water gained height again, this time to the line of his neck, and Alfred feared that though he had escaped the jaws of Brutus, the corridor would become a watery catacomb.  He fished his hands through his pockets but they were bare.  They had seized all of his belongings: his wallet, his keys, his pocket watch.  He was about to abandon hope when his finger brushed against an object deep in the creases that they neglected to retrieve - his silver dollar.  He pulled it out quickly and used the thin edge to interlock with the flat line of the screw heads to move them in a counterclockwise fashion. 

    The first came loose as the water reached his chin.  The second and third as it touched the bridge of his nose.  He tilted his head and gasped toward the ceiling and felt for the fourth as his fingers were growing numb and stiff from the exertion.  At last it came away, but the water had permeated the corridor and Alfred was submerged as he tried to pull the grate far enough to expel him from the aperture.  His eyes blurred and his lungs ached with such intensity he felt they would burst.  With one great thrust from the tunnel's depths, it spat him outward to the open air, and he tumbled headlong into a deep ravine.

    He rolled through a bed of thorny brush, dipping and crashing downward until his body curbed to a warm clearing under the first rays of daybreak.

    His eye fluttered meekly to the morning light, which, so sublime and painful, was like the light of a hundred suns.  Alfred the Fortuitous had broken free. 

 THE END

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