The Rewrite: Chapter 1 (Teaser)

Booker could hear the door rattle in its hinges as it was pounded on. The banging was accompanied by angry voices that he heard all too often by now.

 

"Mister DeWitt! Mister DeWitt! You are running out of time.! You can't hide in there forever! The debt must be paid back or…"

 

Oh yes, they were relentless. New York was a great city, but it had a nasty underbelly, like all grand places. If you looked beyond the Statue of Liberty and the skyscrapers that were just starting to pierce the heavens, you were left with folk that often had nothing to lose. Booker was one of them.

 

"Leave me alone! I told you I got nothing."

 

He was clearly unhappy with himself or the situation he was in, seated behind his desk with his pistol lying in front of him and a bottle of cheap whisky in his left hand. With tired eyes he stared at the door, ready to pick up and aim the gun in an instant. He knew that annoyed knocking on the door was just the start of it, and it did not cease for a moment. It all lead back to one mistake, and how quick it was.

 

He had a great hand, and the game was going swimmingly for him – he was about to knock out last player out of the game after he bluffed. He was taking the money in and in, hoping to finally pay off his horse-racing, which, as it turned out, was a big flop. He had people baying for his blood.

 

"So, what do you have, big guy?" He nonchalantly asked his opponent. Booker was hoping to bluff his way through this one too, he couldn't resist the chance of taking the game – he went all in already.

 

"Three of kings", the man replied, after slowly putting down his cards. Booker swallowed hard, his nonchalance evaporating instantly even though he kept his composure.

 

"So, what do you have, big guy?" The man mocked him. Booker hesitantly put his cards down, trying to remain collected and unmoved, but one could sense his desperation, as he slowly laid down his cards, revealing a meager pair of tens.

 

"That's it DeWitt, end of the line." The man replied, grinning at Booker as he collected his winnings from the center of the table.

 

"Now hold up, I can get more! We aren't done yet."

 

"Sorry DeWitt, but I don't think anyone will bet on a deadbeat like you anymore."

 

He tried to get that money back, oh he tried. But he was out of luck and out of time. Booker hoped that he would be able to find someone else to sponsor him one last time. He stopped counting on any work long time ago, his Pinkerton badge was gathering dust on the night-table next to his bed. He took a swig from the bottle, still looking at the door. The liquid burned his throat as he swallowed it, but it did nothing to ease the tension he felt in the pit of his stomach. He knew what was coming next.

 

The banging and shouts stopped. He heard footsteps and commotion outside, no doubt more people were piling in, readying themselves to burst through the door and take the last thing that Booker could truly call his own. But at that point, it was his instinct rather than desire to live that kept him ready to jump for his gun.

He was greatly surprised when he heard gentle tapping on the door instead, and a voice of a different man.

 

"Hello, Mister DeWitt? Are you there? I'm looking for an investigator; I have a job for you."

 

He was dumbfounded; he could barely put together a coherent thought and process what just happened. After few seconds passed, he shook his head as if to pull himself together.

 

"Yeah, I'm here. Let me let you in."

 

He got up and unlocked the door to reveal a tall man wearing a tan-colored suit and a green tie. He dispassionately looked at Booker before opening his mouth.

 

"I was hoping I would find you in, Mister DeWitt. I've heard that you are quite the betting man and I was afraid you aren't in the business anymore."

 

"What I do is none of your…" Booker stopped himself short of cursing the man out. He almost forgot what a client looks like or how to speak to them. But here he was, in flesh and talking to him.

 

"Do you have business with me? Whatever you want, I might not be your best choice."

 

Booker turned around and went back inside and the man followed suit.

 

"On the contrary, Mister DeWitt, you are very much the man that is needed right now. Mister Adams and Mister Sinclair did not complain in the least when it came to talking about your skills. As an 'investigator' of course." He smirked, but Booker ignored the quip.

 

"Shit, don't tell me you are one of them. I told Sinclair..."

 

The man cut him short.

 

"I know what you have told him, Mister DeWitt, and I made sure he understood. Do not worry about them anymore. Adams and Sinclair have been given an offer and reconsidered your debt."

 

Booker raised an eyebrow as he sat back in his chair. Whoever that man was, he certainly captured his attention now.

 

"And since when I am graced with random acts of kindness? I don't suppose this is free, right?"

"Of course not, Mister DeWitt. But I already see that you know how those things work. You've just been bought, and there is a job that waits for you."

 

The man pulled out a small envelope from an inside pocket of his cream-tan jacket and put it on Booker's desk.

 

"The job is fairly straightforward, and if you perform well there is a bonus that awaits you at the end."

 

"And what if I refuse? How do I know this isn't one of Sinclair's setups?"

 

"Mister DeWitt, I don't think Mister Sinclair would joke with you, and I most certainly did not joke with him. And if you refuse, well, I hope you like the sight of the Hudson riverbed this time of year. Your creditors were quite insistent on being paid for extension of your deadline, one way or another."

 

Booker only sighed. He knew what the answer was as soon as he asked the question.

He moved the bottle and the pistol to the side, opened the envelope and pulled out several bits of paper and cards.

 

"Is this it? What are those?"

 

"Have you heard of Columbia? The flying marvel and a showpiece of the American Way?"

 

"You mean that flying amusement park?"

 

The man chuckled.

 

"Oh I assure you Mister DeWitt, it's far more than just an amusement park, even when you think about it as an airborne Chicago World Fair. And yes, the place is very much still up in the sky somewhere, you just need to find your way in."

 

Among the papers now strewn across the desk there was a black-and-white photograph of a girl, taken from the side. It showed her wearing a dress and a ponytail tied with a ribbon. She looked delicate, with fine features, lithe hands and large bright eyes. It was annotated with a single word. Elizabeth.

 

Booker picked up the photograph, rubbing his rough chin.

 

"And who is she? Is this some kidnapping case you want me to solve?"

 

"You could put it that way Mister DeWitt, although there isn't much solving needed. You only need to retrieve the girl out of the city and bring her to New York unharmed. The exact details of her location are here in the documents."

 

"That's it? I find her and bring her here?" Booker still couldn't shake off his bewilderment. This sounded way too fantastic for something that was worth buying up his debt.

 

The man kept his enigmatic smile as he replied.

 

"That's it Mister DeWitt. Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt."

 

"And who are "you"? I didn't get your name. And why do you want me? Any hired muscle could bring you the girl if you wanted to, for that cash."

 

The man appeared unmoved by anything Booker said so far. It was almost as if he recited from memory every response to Booker's questions.

 

"You know us well, DeWitt, and we know you. And while our client prefers to keep his identity confidential, I don't think I need to keep it from you who are you going to work for. The address in New York is 154 Nassau Street, go there if you have any further questions about the job. Ask for Mister Ford, he will give you rest of the items you will need."

 

The man strolled over to the bedside table and picked up Booker's Pinkerton badge. He blew the dust off from it and walked back over to the desk, tossing it in front of the former agent.

 

"Before you leave for the job, I suggest you clean yourself up. We don't want our contracted agent to look like a dockworker or smell like an Irishman, and the 'natives' up there most likely won't let you through the front door if you look like either."