Alan couldn’t believe it was 2020. The recent centenaries of the First World War years had sparked an interest in the happenings of a century ago and the anniversaries as they came up. He couldn’t explain why or how, but he felt strangely connected to the period a hundred years earlier. To be living in this new decade was special. He decided to refer to this new period as the Twenties, nothing else. Even the word, the Twenties, just oozed cool somehow. Every time he used the phrase he could almost hear jazz music playing somewhere in the distance.

Since the first of January 2020 he had been banging on about how amazing it was that they were now living in the Twenties. Nobody else shared his enthusiasm. Whenever he pointed out that they were living a century on from that classic decade, he was met with either a bored ‘oh yeah’ or they would change the subject completely.

One morning in January he was on his way to work as usual. The traffic was shocking. He didn’t mind the morning commute and could tolerate the traffic as long as it was moving. This morning, however, the cars in front were not moving at all. He craned his neck to see further down the road. All he could see was the snaking line of cars, red tail-lights glowing in the morning gloom.

He swore to himself and flicked the indicator down. His tyres screeched as he quickly turned down a side street, hoping to find a short cut that would bring him out further ahead of the queue of cars. Not quite sure where he was heading, but hoping to cut out a lot of the traffic, he wound his way down unfamiliar narrow streets. After a few hundred yards, and a couple of turns, Alan was completely lost. He kept on going, hoping his inner compass would bring some good and bring him out on a road he recognised. He made a left turn.

The sign on the corner of the red brick building said Hoover Boulevard. Alan pulled up to the kerbside. He gasped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He leaned forward in the driver’s seat and peered through the windscreen. The street looked like a movie set from a period American film. The whole scene was astonishing. The cars trundling along the street were so old-fashioned. They were black and boxish with white-walled tyres. Like the street itself, the vehicles were also like something from an old black and white film. He could imagine an old-time gangster clinging on to the side of the car, standing to the running board, while the police gave chase. He smiled. Just where was he and what was going on?

He got out of his car. Standing on the pavement he took in the full scene. The street itself was decorated in an old-school American fashion. The fire hydrants were of the short red metal style, in keeping with the American scene. He could imagine a guy with an umbrella singing and dancing in the rain along the wide sidewalk. The shop fronts had canopies over their large windows. The people rushing along were dressed in period costume. The men wore fedora hats, dark suits, and overcoats. The women were dressed in knee-length dresses trimmed with beads, fancy hats, and long coats. Their high heeled shoes tapped away as they walked. Some of the women had their hair cut short in a cute, almost boyish cut. A couple walked by, linking arms. They were deep in conversation. He only heard a snippet of their dialogue but he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They were talking in thick American accents. He laughed in delight. This was either the set for a period move or maybe a themed street party. Maybe a director would yell ‘Cut’ as they noticed him crossing their set.

Like a child on his first trip to Santa’s grotto, Alan walked slowly along, taking it all in. The place actually felt like America in early the previous century. There were grocer’s shops selling fruit and veg, prices scribbled in chalk in dollars and cents. A newsagent’s stand had a selection of papers that looked like they belonged in a museum. One headline read: Volstead Act, more arrests made. The attention to detail was exquisite. A man in a trench-coat walked along reading a newspaper. Something else occurred to him. Nobody was on their mobile phone. That small detail in itself was unusual. These days if you saw ten people on the street, maybe seven or eight would be staring at their phones.

He was so distracted by his surroundings that he bumped into a guy walking past. The guy tipped his hat back with a finger and growled in a deep American accent.

‘Watch where you’re going, you jerk.’

Alan mumbled that he was sorry. He turned and crossed the street. A car honked at him as he crossed the road. Alan dashed to the kerb on the far side. A book store window-display advertised the latest releases. A poster promoted This Side of Paradise by F.Scott Fitzgerald. The books on display, had they been genuine, would have been worth a fortune today. Alan noticed a guy in the doorway of the book shop. He was leaning against the door-frame, fedora hat pushed back on his head, eyes watching the street. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

‘Keep walking, pal.’ He called.

‘I was just looking at the books.’ Alan pointed to the window.

‘You trying to be funny?’

He tossed his cigarette to the floor. Alan laughed. Was this some theme park or live art installation? Maybe he’d burst into song in a minute.

‘I’m telling you nicely, take a walk.’ The guy snarled.

Before Alan could reply, a car pulled up to the kerb. There was the clunking of car doors as four men appeared on the sidewalk. They moved towards the book shop with an easy confidence. Their suits were dark pinstripe and the thick-set guy in the middle seemed to be in charge. The other men were moving alongside, following his lead. The main guy glanced at Alan. He flinched under the scrutiny of the piecing blue eyes. Under the white fedora, his dark hair was neatly trimmed. Alan noticed a faint scar on his left cheek.

‘Beat it.’ the guy said.

‘Why the fuss over a book shop?’ replied Alan.

The guy moved in close to Alan, like a boxer crossing the ring.

‘That’s because it ain’t no book store. It’s a Blind Pig.’ he whispered.

‘A what?’

The guy stared at him in puzzlement. He said nothing for a long moment and then spoke to the man beside him.

‘Mario, you think this guy’s a cop?’

‘Nah, he looks too dumb to be a cop. The law wouldn’t just take to loitering out front like a tourist.’

The boss returned his glare back to Alan.

‘What’s your business here?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’ Alan said. ‘I’m lost. I was taking a short-cut and got lost.’

‘You oughtta be careful. These ain’t the kind of streets to be wandering down. A feller could get himself in trouble.’

There was no doubting the threat in his words.

‘Are we in a film or something?’ Alan asked.

‘How’s that?’

‘Are we making a movie?’ said Alan.

‘The pictures? This guy thinks he’s Charlie Chaplin.’ His friends laughed. ‘Have you had a bang to the head? Maybe an automobile hit you?’

Alan shook his head.

The guy next to the boss jerked a thumb.

‘You think he’s one of Crocetti’s goons?’

‘Well, do you work for Crocetti or not?’

‘No, I’m an accountant,’ said Alan.

‘Is that right?’ he grinned. ‘I could use a feller to cook my books. What’s your name?’

‘Alan.’

‘I’m Charlie Palazini.’ He slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Al, let me buy you a drink.’

Alan was surprised to see that, to get that drink, the man turned towards the book shop. Unsure of where he was, and quite what was happening, he followed the men. The guy in the doorway he’d initially spoken to, returned to his spot, smoking another cigarette at the door.

The book shop reminded Alan of the kind of independent shops you’d find tucked down a narrow side street in places like York. The shelves that filled the room were crammed full of books. There were a selection of hardbacks and paperbacks, but he noticed, all the titles were in keeping with the period. There were no modern books on offer. There was no Stephen King or Lee Child books.

The woman behind the counter was speaking on the telephone. The telephone was of the period. The body of the phone was a kind of candlestick shape and the earpiece was separate. She held the earpiece and listened to the person on the other end.

‘I gotta go.’ She said, placing the earpiece in the cradle on the phone.

‘Hey, doll.’ Charlie called.

‘Good afternoon, Mister Palazini.’

He waved a hand and headed to the back of the store. Alan trailed behind as they reached the bookshelf lining the back wall. Alan looked on as Charlie reached out for a title. Was he going to settle down and read the book? The volume was The Midnight Bell by Francis Lathom. Instead of picking the book up he pushed the book back into the shelf. A buzzer sounded from somewhere behind the bookshelf. How strange? Was there a secret door to the place? As if in answer a voice called out.

‘What book can I get you?’

Charlie gave Alan a grin that said watch this!

‘Crime and Punishment.’ Charlie replied.

Having given the correct response there was a clicking sound. Alan gasped as the entire bookshelf swung back. The bookshelf-door swept open majestically to reveal the top of a spiral staircase. The steps descended down into the floor. Charlie straightened his tie and adjusted his hat before lightly taking the stairs.

Alan dashed down the stairs behind them. At the bottom of the staircase the men hovered in front of a set of double doors.

‘Welcome to my place, Al.’ Charlie said.

Charlie gave him a wink and pushed the doors open.

If the strange place had so far felt like a foreign country, then stepping through the double doors with Charlie Palazini was like visiting another planet. The large room was packed full of revellers. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air like a fog. It seemed like everyone, all in period costume, was smoking and drinking and generally letting their hair down. Men in pinstripe suits or tuxedoes, and women in lavish yet surprisingly short dresses. The men had white spats covering the tops of their shiny black shoes. Waiters dressed in white jackets dashed around the room carrying trays of all kinds of alcoholic drinks. Alan followed Charlie and the others as they crossed the room. Almost everyone greeted Charlie. He shook hands, patted people on the back, and pecked some of the women on the cheek. There was no doubt he was in charge. There was a real party atmosphere in the room.

Something occurred to Alan. This was real. Whatever it was, and however it was happening, this was real. This was no film set, no theme-park. Whatever it was, he sensed that to the people around him, this was real-life.

Charlie took a seat at a large round table in front of the small stage. The others joined him. Charlie waved for Alan to sit. Alan nodded, growing less sure of what was going on, as each moment passed.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s almost like Prohibition isn’t happening. Is this your first time in a Speakeasy?’

Alan simply nodded.

Charlie pointed to the other men in his entourage.

‘That’s Jackie Ringo. Rings is my right-hand man. We go way back.’

The guy tipped his hat.

‘And these two are my security team. ‘Two Guns’ Tommy Byrne and Tony Cicero.’

The two dangerous looking men simply gave him curt nods.

The chatter in the room was disrupted by shouting and yelling from the door.

‘Police! Nobody move! This is a raid!’

All eyes looked on as officers in blue uniform stormed the room.

‘You’re all under arrest,’ said the chief. ‘Aint none of you heard of the Volstead Act? Take them away boys.’

Alan was interested as to what would happen now. Would the customers protest? Would Charlie be arrested? Would one of his guys pull a gun? Charlie got slowly to his feet. He pointed at the police chief, a scowl on his face.

‘You will never take me alive, copper!’ He yelled.

He reached into his pocket as the room looked on in stunned silence. Instead of a gun, he produced a thick envelope. He tossed it to the police chief. The copper caught it and laughed.

‘Good to see you, Charlie.’

‘You too, Frank. For you and your hard-working boys everything is on the house.’

‘Very good of you.’

‘Not at all. You guys just keep up the good work, okay?’

The room erupted into laughter. Everyone returned to their own conversations and their glasses of illegal liquor. Charlie motioned for a waiter to come over. A skinny guy in a white jacket rushed over.

‘Get these fellers some whiskey, the good stuff, not the paint-stripper we sell to the saps.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’ The waiter nodded and dashed to get the drinks.

As they sipped their drinks a man in a dinner jacket came on stage. The audience clapped. Charlie joined in, clapping enthusiastically.

‘I love this guy.’

The piano player launched into a thumping song. From the howling lyrics the song was about someone or something called Tipitina. The words seemed like complete gibberish but the tune was so catchy.

A while later Charlie checked the time on his wristwatch.

‘I gotta make a move,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a shipment of whiskey coming in down from Canada.’

‘I best be making a move, myself,’ said Alan. ‘I’ll get my sat-nav out and find my way back.’

‘Get your what out?’

‘Nevermind.’

Charlie nodded and got to his feet.

Back out on the sidewalk, Charlie shook him by the hand.

‘Nice to meet you, Al. If you ever need any bootleg liquor you come see me.’

He tucked a dollar bill in Alan’s pocket. Alan went to respond but his words were drowned out by the screeching of car tyres. A car whizzed along the street. A guy in a long dark overcoat was hanging off the side of the car. Alan spotted what was in his hand. He recognised it from old films. It was a Thompson sub-machine gun, known as a Tommy gun.

As the car swept by, the man opened fire. The mechanical jarring, thud-thud-thud of the machine gun made Alan’s ears ring. Charlie’s body shook and twisted violently as the bullets tore through him. His body guards fumbled in their coats for their own weapons to return fire. In an utter panic Alan turned and ran. His feet pounded the pavement.

He spotted his own car at the bottom of the street. His modern-day vehicle seemed to be at odds with the retro feel of the rest of the street and everything in it. He unlocked his car and started the engine. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped away down the street. The sign saying Hoover Boulevard was a blur as he raced away. He turned a corner, driving as fast as he dared.

He pulled to a stop. He looked around. He was back in present-day Manchester. At a bus stop most of the people stared at their mobile phones as they waited for the bus. Everyone was dressed in clothing he was used to, instead of the more formal dress of the 1920s. He took a deep breath. Whatever had happened, it was over. He took out his mobile phone. He tapped the name Charlie Palazini into the internet search engine. He stared in confusion at the result. Prohibition racketeer Carlo ‘Charlie’ Palazini had been gunned down outside his Chicago club. Alan noticed the date. It was exactly a hundred years ago. The black and white photograph was of the man Alan had just seen. How very strange. There had to be some explanation. Maybe at the back of his mind he had picked up on the facts and he had dreamed the whole thing. He had been obsessing recently over the period and the centenary. Perhaps, getting lost had triggered his over-active imagination. Yes, he nodded, that must have been it. As he was putting his mobile phone away, he noticed something in his pocket. A crumpled dollar bill.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom