I hope you guys like this story. Please R&R, and remember to do a New York accent! -CMS

A Night on the Town

Uncle Louie's. A happenin' joint, if I ever saw one. Live jazz, waiters in tuxes, and three floors for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It was my first time there, and I was havin' a good old time.

It's not like this was one of my regular hangouts. I usually wasted my time at Joey's, a dingy basement that just passed as a bar. Tonight, though, I was sittin' at a table with the Chief of Police and his daughter, Lola.

Chief Pontarelli didn't look too shabby for his 52 years. But needless to say, Lola looked a whole lot better. Not that I was here to make time with any dame. Or maybe I was, but that wasn't the main reason. Apparently, Pontarelli had taken time out of his busy day to skim through my resume, and he'd liked what he'd seen. There was a promotion floating through the air, and I'm the kind of a guy who reaches out for opportunities and grabs 'em before they're gone.

"So," said Pontarelli, lookin' me square in the eyes. "I hear ya raided a speakeasy a couple weeks ago."

"Ya heard right," I shot back, smooth as butter. "That I did."
Chief Pontarelli nodded, then motioned to Lola. "My daughter speaks very highly of your police work, Mr. Aiello."

"I don't doubt it," I replied, taking a sip of pop. "I speak very highly of your daughter, as well." Lola let out a high pitched giggle, and I winked at her.

Pontarelli opened his mouth to speak, but then he looked past me, and his face got white as snow. I raised my eyebrows and followed his gaze.

There were two chumps in double-breasted suits makin' a beeline for our table. They didn't look too happy. I pushed out my chair and stood up, ready for trouble.

The first guy stopped right in front of me. He was a little taller, sure, but the taller they are the harder they fall.

"I'd like a word with Chief Pontarelli, please," he said, actin' all high and mighty. I didn't budge, and I could see the guy flinch. "Excuse me," he said rather forcefully, shoving me to the side.

I don't take kindly to shoving, so I got back up, blocking his way. "You're not excused."

He looked at me, smug as ever. "You should have stayed down." His arm flicked out, flashing a knife. He yelled out, swinging his arm down towards me. I grabbed his wrist and kneed him in the crotch. He folded like a lawn chair.

The second guy whipped out a tommy gun and started blasting. Diving behind a counter, I covered my head while he emptied the magazine in my general direction. The slugs were everywhere, shattering china and spraying glass and countertop all over the place. I pulled out my Derringer and chanced a glimpse over at my dining partners. They were huddled under the table, the red leather chairs riddled with bullet holes. Wiping away sweat with the back of my hand, I pulled myself up, dashing from behind my cover. I fired two slugs into the second roughneck before somersaulting behind a pillar.

I quickly analyzed the situation. From the sound of things, there were more thugs pouring in through the swinging doors, and I was guessing they weren't here to sample the chicken alfredo. I picked up a piece of granite and heaved it as far to my left as I could. They were distracted, but only for a moment. I had to make a move, and fast. Heaving myself out from behind the lead-riddled pillar, I went into a full sprint towards the Chief's table. If I still wanted that promotion, it wouldn't help if Pontarelli was pushin' up daisies.

My movement didn't go unnoticed. As I rolled behind the booth a round of bullets whizzed by, inches from my head. These guys were playin' for keeps. I pulled off one slug blindly, then turned toward my fellow diners. "Get to the car," I yelled, motioning for the kitchen door, through which there was was an exit. "I'll cover you!"

Lola nodded, terrified, and I noticed that she was pressing a napkin against Pontarelli's arm. It was soaked in blood. But Lola had been lucky by the looks of it. It was my job to ensure that that luck didn't run out.

Pushing myself up, I yelled, "RUN!" and pulled hard on the trigger repeatedly, dropping two guys in two shots. I smiled, despite myself. Dang, was I good.

I plugged one last punk and dropped the empty heater, then spun around and sprinted for the swinging kitchen doors, bullets singeing my sideburns. Then I felt three slugs catch me in the back and I threw myself through the doors, splintering the wood. Rolling onto the tiled floor, I rubbed my aching back. Lucky thing I'd thought to wear my village tux.

I struggled to my feet and shoved past a terrified chef as two gun- toting hoods burst through the door. There was a chatter of gunfire and I dodged several shots as horrified kitchen staff scrambled for cover. Grabbing a steaming pan from the burner, I dumped the contents and held it behind my head. I darted for the exit. Another explosion of gunfire dented the pan where my head would've been only moments before. Tossing it behind me, I thought how lucky I'd been. If I ever got out of this alive, I'd start going to church on Sundays.

I kicked open the door and raced into the rainy night, searching anxiously for the car as the gangsters closed in. It was then that Pontarelli's Ford screeched around the corner, driven by Lola. I shook my head. What a doll.

I jumped into the car as the hoodlums spewed out the door behind me. I yelled to Lola, "Drive!" and pulled my legs inside and slammed the door. We bounced off a curb and into the street. Hearing the roar of an engine close behind, I shook my head in disbelief. I wasn't counting on them having a vehicle at their disposal.

Lola floored it and I glanced behind us, only to be greeted by a hail of bullets, taking a piece out of my fedora. Pulling my head inside, I glanced back at Pontarelli, who was soaked in blood. "Ya got any heaters in this fliver?"

"Under the seat," he grunted, cringing with pain. I felt underneath, and smiled grimly as I pulled out the firearm. It was a pump-action shotgun. Perfect.

I cocked the weapon and leaned out the window, putting a slug through the windshield. The punk in the passenger seat keeled over, dead. Pulling back inside I grinned. One down, one to go.

I heard a grinding of tires as our pursuer accelerated, slowing as he sidled up to us. Reaching over his toasted buddy, he got off two shots from his 45. I ducked as the windshield shattered and Lola screeched, covering her head and taking her hands off the wheel. Our car turned violently, smashing into our assailant. The driver yelled out, dropping his pistol, and I took the opportunity, firing at him one-handed. The bullet shot off his pointer finger, then continued on, blowing out the window. He cried out, reflexively spinning the steering wheel. His car veered, bumping up onto the sidewalk and colliding with a streetlight. The light snapped in half and crashed onto the roof, crushing the vehicle. As Lola regained control of the wheel, a sneer appeared on my face. "Good riddance, scum," I muttered, stowing the weapon.

* * *

I never liked hospitals, and only go there when it's completely necessary. But today was different, and I couldn't help but smile as I stood above Chief Pontarelli, Lola on my arm.

"How's the injury?" I asked, looking down at my boss.

"Getting better," Pontarelli replied, glancing at his cast. Then he looked up at me, his eyes shining. "I wanted to congratulate you, Aiello. That was some outstanding police work last week."

I shrugged it off. "Aw, it was nothin'. Just doin' my job." Lola squeezed my arm, and I winked at her.

"Speaking of your job," Pontarelli said," sitting up in his bed. "How would you like a promotion?"