William Schomp: Chapters 1 & 2

Chapter One

“The Bar”

I was still a bit awestruck after Mr. Schomp’s lecture and challenge. So much so, I followed him with some vague plan of getting him to let me become his side-kick, pupil, apprentice, or assistant. I trailed him for over an hour, moving down out of the University of Pennsylvania campus across South Street Bridge and into South Philadelphia. We eventually ended up at a corner bar and restaurant in the Italian Market. Mr. Schomp headed down into the basement away from the dining tables and casual patrons. Into what most likely would be the “Locals Only” section of the bar. He headed past the far end of the bar, towards the booths along the back wall, near the kitchen entrance.

He crossed the smoky bar as if he belonged. Casually avoiding flamboyantly extended hands and arms of the regulars, as they gestured and argued among themselves about “The lousy Krauts” or the corruption of baseball by the creation of a women’s league and other common bar conversation in Philadelphia. I was caught off-guard by a waitress, stepping in between me and a table of burly patrons, for a matter of moments, and Mr. Schomp appeared to vanish into the smoke and noise of the bar. Looking around the room probably made me stand out a bit. I fervently hoped he had only taken a seat. I really wanted to catch him before he could actually disappear. I finally found him seated in a booth near a decently sized stage in the far corner of the bar, almost opposite to the direction I saw him moving just moments before. I hurriedly crossed the rest of the bar and stood at the corner of the table waiting for him to acknowledge my presence.

“Sit down, Kid. It is obvious none of my evasion techniques or muddling charms worked on you. So whatever you’re here for just spit it out and then leave me alone.”  Mr. Schomp did not look up or even raise his head during the entire statement. It wasn’t until I had seated myself and placed my bag on the bench beside me that he raised his head. “Good, you’re at least old enough to buy my beer and whiskey.”  Mr. Schomp raised his left arm and made a flicking motion with his hand. I watched eagerly for any show of power he might be conjuring. He chuckled roughly, as he noticed my zeal, and said,  “Relax, Kid. I am just getting the waitress’s attention.”

I waited patiently as the waitress took Mr. Schomp’s order. She smiled at me and asked if I wanted a drink. Mr. Schomp’s gaze shifted from her to me in a mild glare. I quickly realized that unbeknownst to the waitress she had just given Mr. Schomp a way to test me, which he efficiently took full advantage. I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat and ordered a beer and asked for dinner menus for Mr. Schomp and myself. The waitress repeated our orders. Mr. Schomp grunted an acknowledgment, and I nodded nervously. She smiled at me again and winked as she went to get our drinks and some menus.

“What do you want, Kid?”

“I… um…  I would really like to become your apprentice, Mr. Schomp.”  I tried to sound confident and sincere, more or less realizing as I squeaked and strained my way through the statement that he could probably see my true intentions through my aura, just like John’s during the lecture.

“Kid. I don’t want an apprentice. Right now, I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I had one. Give it up, Kid. Finish college. Start a business. Get married. I don’t care what you do, as long as you forget this idea of becoming some kind of hero.”

All I could do was stare at him. He had declared in one blistering little sentence exactly what I hoped he could teach me to be. After his displays of Arcane power during the lecture and the walking stick test, I had started to dredge up memories I had of his old radio interviews, and the stories we all had heard as kids about the “Magic Detective.”  I had remembered how fantastical his cases had been, published and broadcast on Saturday night “Gumshoe Radio.”  I wanted to be like him. Not just another G.I. Wiz that most of American kids wanted to be, but something unique, something different, a true Wizard. “I want to learn from you, Mr. Schomp. I want to know how to do all the stuff I have heard you can do…”

He cut through my statement with one swift sweep of his hand in front of me. An orange haze flowed from behind his hand, as he made the move, catching my attention even more than the tips of his fingers ghosting past the tip of my nose. “Join the Army, Kid. I taught all I could to the Army’s Arcane Squads. The rest is just panic and survival instinct.”

The waitress arrived with our drinks and the menus. She just smiled and nodded at me. “I will give you gentlemen some time to decide.”  She turned and walked away before Mr. Schomp could object.

He took a deep breath and picked up his glass. “Scotch. There’s only one thing smoother. More Scotch.”  Mr. Schomp then shot back what I would have considered at least a four nip drink. “Nothing smoother.”  He purposely set the glass down and waved to the waitress again.

“Do you really want to know how to be what I am?”

“With more determination than you can truly appreciate, Mr. Schomp.”

“It’s Bill.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Bill, my name is Bill. You’re not a client. We’re not in a classroom. And you’re not a cop. Call me, Bill. Never Mr. Schomp or sir.”

“Yes, sir. I mean. Thank you, Bill.”

Bill nodded at me. “Fine. You pay for dinner. I will tell you what I went through to become what fate has made me.”

“What can I get ya?”  The waitress settled her left elbow on her hip and held a pencil at the ready above her notepad.

Chapter Two

“The Boss”

I had just picked up my glass of Scotch. On the stage was a very tall man strumming away at an Upright Bass, while Cait’ sang. It was in the spring of 1932. I only showed up at places like The Boss’s speakeasy on nights Cait’ was going to sing. Irish-born, she was a beauty and her voice had a natural ability to carry and find all the deepest parts of a bistro or speakeasy. This particular one was run by an Italian, hiding it two floors beneath his furniture store. It wasn’t one of the hippest spots in Philadelphia, but it was very rarely raided, and The Boss prided himself on that distinction.

I was just about to settle into my glass and an evening of listening to some breathy jazz, when two very big, very Italian gentlemen wearing nice tweed suits, stepped up behind me. One, wearing a bowler hat, reached out, and placed a very meaty hand under my right arm. The man on my left grabbed the bar stool I was sitting on and quickly pulled it out from under me. Bowler-hat’s hand was the only thing that kept me from shattering my jaw and teeth on the brass rail of the bar, but he did spill my Scotch.

“You’re coming with us.”  Bowler-hat turned me towards the back of the bar.

I saw no point in getting thrashed by a couple of guidos. Especially when I hadn’t even been told why I was going to get thrashed yet. I knew a lot less about the mafia then, too. A lot of people know everything and nothing about the mafia. It took a few too many poundings for me to realize that most bullies will give for one of two reasons. They like doing it or they find it to be the fastest way to get a point across. And most mafia enforcers were just bullies with better suits. It was what they got paid for. I am no angel when it comes to meting out violence, but I have always believed that I had good reason before I started. I have met a few enforcers who would get a little carried away when bringing someone in to see their boss.

The two thugs high-stepped me through a couple of doors and down a few smoky, low-lit hallways, to a very formidable looking oak door. Bowler-hat knocked twice before opening the door and dragging me through behind him. I tried to take in as much of what appeared to be an office, as quickly as possible. My chaperons weren’t preventing me from taking a good look around, so I made every attempt to soak up the environment. You can learn a lot from where a man works. Feel the aura of personal spaces any time you can. It could save your life when it comes down to moods and how personalities clash. The two guidos guided me around a couple of finely made leather upholstered reception chairs and thrust me down into one, which sat before a well-appointed desk.

“Sit. Stay.”  Guido number two commanded before walking to stand beside a second door to the left of and behind the desk.

“Woof. Woof.”  I couldn’t help myself. I was feeling slightly belligerent towards Guido Two. Guido One or Bowler-hat, as I had decided to dub him, had only spilled my Scotch. Guido Two would probably have gladly shattered my jaw off that bar. As I said, some of the hired muscle really liked being the muscle just a little too much.

We waited for about five minutes. Bowler-hat at my right elbow and Guido Two standing by the only other door, with me seated in a very nice leather armchair, becoming increasingly more nervous. As I said, I only came to that particular speakeasy when Cait’ was singing, and I had not had any dealings with the true mob at that point in my career, as a Private Dick, Retrieval Man, or Arcane Practitioner.

The man that eventually came through that second door was obviously the man-in-charge. A three-piece, grey, pinstripe suit. A cigar held between the ring and middle finger of his right hand. He was well groomed, even aristocratic in his appearance. I was at once impressed, awed, and intimidated by the man that sat down behind the desk in front of me.

“This is the guy, Boss.”  Guido Two provided.

“So, you’re the private investigator, William Hartung Schomp.”  The Boss took a heavy pull off of his cigar to accentuate his statement.

“Bill, please. Only my late mother, police, and judges call me by my full name. And I don’t think I am in that kind of trouble.”

A large plume of smoke puffed out of The Boss’s mouth, as a smirk ghosted across his lips. He casually reached across his desk, hooked a glass or possibly fine crystal ashtray with his pointer finger, and drew it closer to himself. He knocked the cigar against the ashtray twice, before bringing it back to his lips to take another pull off of it. The entire time observing me closely. At no time, during all of his actions, did he take his eyes off of me. “Alright, gentlemen. I believe Bill and I have a few things to discuss. The least of which is why a P.I. and recovery man is in my joint.”  The Boss flicked the fingers on his right hand not occupied with his cigar, shooing Guido Two and Bowler-Hat towards the door we had originally entered through.

The Boss’s gaze did not waver off of me for at least a count of ten after his enforcers had left the room. “Alright, Mr. Schomp. What makes you think you’re not in that kind of trouble?”

I crossed my legs, clasped my hands, and set them on top of my knees. “Actually, it is more a feeling, than actual knowledge. If I understand who, or more accurately what you are, then if I were in that kind of trouble then we would be meeting in a completely different kind of room. I would guess one not so close to the main part of the club. I am thinking one with only one real door. And probably, at least one more floor down, with easier access to the sewers. And I feel that there may have been a chair for me, but it wouldn’t be as nice as this one.”  I took my hands off my knees and patted them both on the arms of the chair.

I will admit now that I was probably a little too cocky for the situation I found myself in. But overall, for being pretty new to dealing with a man of The Boss’s type, I felt I had done quite well. I could have been a little less flippant, maybe a little more gracious, about the fact that I wasn’t tied to a chair, about to be worked over like a side of fresh beef. I also feel if I had been any less of an ass to The Boss, I never would have earned his respect and eventually would have ended as a worked over rack of ribs or the proverbial side of beef. My gall must have either annoyed or impressed The Boss enough to keep me from the beating I feared.

The Boss laughed once. “I like you, kid…  Bill. You’ve got moxie. Good thing I need you right now, because if it had been any other time and a Private Dick had shown up in my joint unannounced. And had that kind of attitude. It would have ended your career.”  The Boss took another drag off of his cigar. “I need you for a job. I noticed you come here a few times a month. Is there something special about my place that you like?”

I had trouble keeping up with some of The Boss’s abrupt changes in line of thought. I must have appeared fairly slow-witted and that of course in never a good thing. “Excuse me. I don’t mean to sound less than impressed by your presence, but could you repeat that part before the last question.”

“I need you for a job. But we are going to leave that for a little bit. I get to know my employees more before I start them working. Now, other than our excellent Scotch, what brings you to my establishment most Saturday and Tuesday nights?”

I never asked him outright, which would have been rude, but I am fairly sure he already knew why I frequented his gin-joint. I didn’t think it would hurt for him to have confirmation that I liked one of his singers.

“Cait’.”

“Cait’?”  The Boss seemed to be truly puzzled by my statement. He must have assumed I would lie or at least make my answer more vague. His brows drew down in a severe frown, with the smoke slowly escaping his nostrils he distinctly reminded me of a Storm Giant I had dealt with in the Poconos. “The narrow back bird that was singing earlier?”

“Yes, sir. I discovered her one night while tracking a wayward husband, who had decided to see if the grass was greener on the other side.”  I smiled, remembering that first night when I heard Cait’ sing. “The guy took this little blonde thing to a club in Germantown and Cait’ was performing. I got so distracted listening to her that I almost lost my mark, when he decided to head out for a second dessert.”

The Boss smiled a bit of a knowing smile. He either appreciated my view of Cait’s singing or appreciated the idea of a second dessert. I am not sure if he wanted me to explain more, so I resolutely decided to hold my tongue until he started speaking again. The Boss didn’t leave me wondering for very long. A quick glance at his desk clock and the door I had been brought through pulled him out of his nostalgia.

“Well, that tells me you have a keen appreciation of both music and women. Two things I value highly, myself. The job I need you to perform for me has something to do with a woman. My wife and I…”

“I’m sorry. I really don’t like interrupting you. And I certainly would never believe you would use a P.I. to do work that any of your men are probably more accomplished at. But I strictly deal with thefts and reacquisition now.”  Cutting off someone, especially someone who was obviously well placed in the “Philly Mob”, was probably not one of my more brilliant ideas. But as I said before, I was young and inexperienced with dealing with them. The Boss seemed to take this into account because he didn’t have me left in an alley down by the waterfront.

“Bill, I need you to recover a piece of jewelry. It was stolen from my home while I was out with my wife. Hence, referring to my wife, when I began to speak.”  The Boss paused at this point and waited to see if I would interrupt him again. I earned a few points of wisdom, at this point, by keeping my trap shut. “A necklace was stolen from my place. It is a very important necklace. Very noticeable. Very prominent. A lot of people would notice if my wife stopped wearing it.”  The Boss took another long pull off of his cigar. “Now, I am not sure if that is the actual intent of the theft or if the thief just recognized the worth of the piece. It was not the only thing he stole. The rest is not important. Either way. I need that string of ice back. And I want to meet the person who stole it.”

“So, you want to hire me to recover the lost necklace. Can I ask why? I am guessing you have more contacts than I do within the criminal network. I am fairly sure you could find out which fences have taken that kind of merchandise in the last…  By the way, when was the necklace stolen?”

The Boss grimaced, blew more smoke out of his nostrils, and ground his cigar out. “Last night. I figure it will be at least twenty-four hours from about eight this morning before questioning the fences would do any good. But…”  The Boss opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a yellow ledger pad. “Here is a list of fences that deal with the merchandise you will be looking for. If I hear that any of these men have been raided by the cops in the next 48 hours… I will take it very badly.”  The Boss scratched his way through a quick list of operations that dealt with stolen merchandise for cash, fences. He finished his statement and list with a quick jab at the bottom of the page. He slid the list across the desktop towards me.

“I have no issues with you requesting information from the bulls, just allowing them to use my information. The break-in was very professional. If he hadn’t stolen from me, I would hire him, myself. But…”  The Boss just held up his hands.

“Now the thief’s talents are a curse?”

“Pos-i-tive-ly. The bundler scaled the trellis outside of my third-story bedroom. Picked the latch, snaked his way in, rummaged a few drawers in my dresser, and didn’t take anything. I don’t keep anything worth anything in there, so he moved on to my wife’s things. Took two gold chains, a few sets of her pearl earrings and this…”  The Boss dug a folded piece of newsprint out of his breast pocket and spread it out on the desktop. The string of diamonds would have put many a man in the pauper’s house and raised even the most homely house-marm to Corinne Griffith’s status. I whistled, appreciatively.

“Um, sir?  Are you sure, you don’t want someone along to make sure…  Well, honestly that is some very heavy ice.”

“No!”  The Boss sat back heavily, making his chair groan in complaint. A dark and definitely scarred hand rose to cover his eyes. “Do you understand what it would mean within my organization if it was discovered that some random thief got away my wife’s favorite string? I would not live out the week before some young cugine tried to prove he could be Capo of my crew. It wouldn’t work, of course. Someone higher up in the family would make sure I was avenged. But what good would that really do me?”

I began to see his point and his plans. I would be used to cover what would be seen as his blunder, whether it was a real blunder or imagined within his world. The theft made The Boss appear weak. Because someone was able to enter his home and make off with a very personal possession. A very expensive and noticeable symbol of power.

Going deep enough into my talent, I connected my vision to the energy fields that make up our world. This is something most practitioners of the Arcane learn to do at a basic level. Some call it a “Third Sight”, “The Third Eye”, or just “The Sight.”  It helps us all learn what elements are strongest in the given area, before we begin a casting. I planned to read The Boss’s aura or more specifically the energies that were flowing around him.

The Boss carried a lot of weight of his world on his conscience and will. He knew much of what his organization did was despicable and loathsome, but the “Philly Mob” made every attempt to curb as much of the violence that was widespread in their contemporaries in Chicago and New York. As I mentioned before, The Boss prided himself on the fact that his club rarely got hassled by the cops. This was as much due to his ability to curb the violence, and out of control party nature that prevailed in other clubs, as the bribes and kickbacks he paid.

The Boss adhered to a strict honor code, expected his men to as well, and never broke his word once given. I saw in his aura that as long as I held up my word, he would hold to his. I saw all of this in his aura and more that didn’t become clear to me till much later. I also saw one other thing. The Boss was scared of something or someone. I could not get a clear picture of exactly what it was, but it had something to do with the job I was being hired to do. I decided to do something then that I had not done in front of another person in a long time.

“Does she wear the necklace during the day?”

“What? Oh, no. She only wore it to dinner parties, shows, and the occasional Opera. Why does that matter? Are you saying that someone within my social circle stole the necklace? I can assure you that while most of them may have the money to hire someone, most wouldn’t hesitate to take it by force. And certainly none have the skills to climb up the side of my house, and jimmy-pick the latched window. Especially not hanging off of the side of a four-story building.”  The Boss eyeballed me thoroughly. I am sure he was trying to determine whether I was really worth the effort.

Here is a bit of advice, don’t give a client the chance to question your mental state. Just move along as confidently as possible, complete the task you have in mind and hope they don’t call the men-in-white. Oh and keep small bits on your person at all times. Strings. Buttons. Beads. Non-denominational coins. Scraps of paper. And whatever else that might possibly be used for quick charms and such. I happened to have some thread and other bric-a-brac in the pockets of my overcoat. Mostly stuff to fix the coat when I would catch buttons on door frames or the occasional corner of a wall.

I had decided to give The Boss a little insurance. I had my form. I had my Intent, now I had to hope I had the confidence needed to draw on enough Will to perform real magic in front of an audience. I started off by gathering all my materials, a spool of thread, that odd button that is on the coat for no other reason than replacing a lost button on the coat, a needle out of my wallet, an old trick that my father had taught me. And finally, the news clipping showing the necklace The Boss wanted me to find. I pulled off a good three feet of thread from the spool, doubled it over, and threaded the needle. I took a deep breath, gathered all my concentration I could and began creating The Boss’s insurance policy.